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THE JUSTICE OP THE KING 




THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO 
SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 


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“No Truth, liefore God I said Madainoiselle" 





THE 


JUSTICE OF THE KING 


BY 


HAMILTON DRUMMOND 

M 

AUTHOR OF 

“the kino’s scapegoat,” “room five,” “the seven 
HOUSES,” “ SHOES OF GOLD,” ETC. 


FRONTISPIECE BY J. A. WILLIAMS 





Neto g0dt 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
1911 


All rights reserved 


COPTRiaHT, 1911 , 

Bt the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 


Set up and electrotyped. Published February, 1911. 



Narhjoolt JJrega 

J. S. Cushing' Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTBB 

I. The Despatch . . . . 

II. A Lesson in Obedience 

III. For a Woman’s Sake . 

IV. The Justice of the King . 

V. The King lays bare his Heart 
VI. How Louis loved his Son . 


PAGE 

1 

9 

17 

25 

43 

53 


VII. Four-and-twenty, with the Heart of Eigh- 
teen 63 

VIII. The Black Dog of Amboise .... 72 

IX. Francois Villon, Poet and Gallows-cheat . 83 

X. Love, the Enemy 93 

XL The Cross in the Darkness .... 103 
Xn. La Mothe believes, but is not Convinced . 110 

XIII. “Friend is More than Family” . . . 118 

XIV. For Life and a Throne 126 

XV. A Question in Theology 136 

XVI. Too Slow and too Fast 146 

XVII. Stephen La Mothe asks the Wrong Question 157 

XVIII. French and English 169 

XIX. Greater Love hath No Man .... 177 

XX. The Last Stand 186 

XXL Denounced 193 


V 


VI 


CONTENTS 


OHAPTBE 

XXII. 

<‘We Must save her Together” . 


PAGE 

. 205 

XXIII. 

Jean Saxe is Explicit 


. 218 

XXIV. 

A Prophet without Honour . 


. 228 

XXV. 

“It is a Trap” 


. 240 

XXVI. 

COMMINES takes AdVICE . 


. 249 

XXVII. 

The Success of Failure . 


. 256 

XXVIII. 

Philip de Commines, Diplomatist . 


. 265 

XXIX. 

The Price of a Late Breakfast . 


. 274 

XXX. 

“Love is my Life” .... 


. 284 

XXXI. 

Saxe rises in Villon’s Estimation 


. 294 

XXXII. 

La Mothe fulfils his Commission 


. 299 

XXXIII. 

The Arrest 


. 312 

XXXIV. 

Light in the Darkness . 


. 318 

XXXV. 

The Dawn Broadens 


. 326 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 






THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


CHAPTER I 

THE DESPATCH 

All morning the King had been restless, unappeas- 
able, captious, with little relapses unto the immobility 
of deep thought, and those who knew him best were 
probing deeply both their conscience and their conduct. 
Had he sat aloof, quiet in the sunshine, his dogs sleep- 
ing at his feet, his eyes half closed, his hands, waxen, 
almost transparent, and bird’s claws for thinness, spread 
out to the heat, those about him would have gone their 
rounds with a light heart. At such times his schemes 
were thoughts afar off, dreams of some new, subtle 
stroke of policy, and none within touch had cause to 
fear. 

But this May day he was restless, unsettled, his 
mind so full of an active purpose shortly to be ful- 
filled that he could not keep his tired body quiet for 
long, but every few minutes shifted his position or his 
place. If he sat in his great chair, padded with down 
to ease his weakness and the aching of his bones, his 
fingers were constantly plucking at his laces, or play- 
ing with the tags which fastened the fur-lined scarlet 

B 1 


2 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


cloak he wore for a double purpose, to comfort the 
coldness of his meagre body, and that the death-like 
pallor of his face might be touched by its gay bright- 
ness to a reflected, fictitious glow of health. But to 
remain seated for any length of time jarred with his 
mood. Pushing himself to his feet he would walk the 
length of the gallery and back again, leaning heavily 
upon his stick, only to sink once more into his chair 
and fumble anew with shaking hands at whatever loose 
end or edge lay nearest. 

So it had been all morning, but the restlessness had 
redoubled within the last half-hour. It was then that 
a post had reached Valmy, no man knew from whence, 
nor had the messenger been asked any questions. The 
superscription on the despatch was a warning against 
the vice of curiosity. It was in the King’s familiar 
handwriting, bold and angular, and ran, “To His 
Majesty the King of France, At his Chateau of 
Valmy, These in great haste.” A “Louis” in large 
letters was sprawled across the lower corner of the 
cover. 

But though none asked questions it was noted that 
the horse was fresher than the man, and that whereas 
the one was streaming in a lather of sweat which had 
neither set nor dried, the other was splashed, caked, 
and powdered with mud and dust to the eyebrows: 
therefore the wise in such matters deduced that short 
relays had been provided, but that the rider had only 
halted long enough to climb from saddle to saddle. 
In silence he handed his letter to the Captain of the 
Guard, together with the King’s signet, and in silence 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


3 


he rode away; but whereas he came at a gallop he 
rode away at a slow walk ; therefore the wise further 
deduced that his task was ended. 

With the King in residence not even the Captain of 
the Guard could move freely through Valmy, but the 
signet answered all challenges. Every door, every 
stair-head was double-sentried, but except for these 
silent figures the rooms and passages were alike empty. 
Loitering for gossip was not encouraged at Valmy, and 
least of all in the block which held the King’s lodg- 
ings. Only in the outer gallery, where the King took 
the air with the pointed windows open to the south for 
warmth, was there any suggestion of a court. Here, 
at the entrance, and remote from the King alone at the 
further end, Saint-Pierre and Leslie were in attend- 
ance. Pausing to show the ring for the last time 
Lessaix unbuckled his sword, handed it in silence to 
Saint-Pierre, and passed on. In Valmy suspicion 
never slept, never opened its heart in faith to loyalty, 
and not even the Captain of the Guard might approach 
the King armed. 

While he was still some yards distant Louis, gnaw- 
ing his under lip as he watched him, suddenly flung 
out one hand, the palm outward, the fingers spread, 
and Lessaix halted. 

“Well?” He spoke curtly, harshly, as a man 
speaks whose temper is worn to breaking-point. 

“ A despatch, sire.” 

“ From whom ? ” 

“ There is nothing to show ” 

“ From whom ? ” 


4 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“ I do not know, sire.” 

“ Have you no tongue to ask ? ” 

“ I asked nothing, sire.” 

“ Um ; hold it up.” Leaning forward Louis bridged 
his dim eyes with his hand, and under the shadow 
Lessaix saw the thin mouth open and shut convulsively ; 
but when the hand was lowered the King’s face was 
expressionless. “ What else ? ” 

“ Your Majesty’s signet.” 

“ Let me see ! Let me see ! Um ; that will do. Put 
them on the table and go. Where is the messenger ? ” 
“He left at once.” 

“Um ; were the roads bad from Paris ? ” 

“He did not say, sire ; he never opened his lips.” 
“Silent, was he? Then there is one wise man in 
France. Thank you. Captain Lessaix.” 

With a salute Lessaix retired, but as he buckled on 
his sword again Saint-Pierre whispered, “ Whence ? ” 
“I don’t know,” replied Lessaix, also under his 
breath, “ but not from Paris ! ” 

Left alone Louis sat back in his chair, his thin lips 
mumbling nervously at his nails, his eyes fixed on his 
own handwriting : the ring, a passport to life or death, 
he had at once slipped upon his finger. Every moment 
he knew he was watched, every action weighed, and he 
was a little uncertain how far a judicious self -betrayal 
would further his purpose. His handwriting would 
tell them nothing but that he knew the writer of the 
letter, whence it came, and that it was important. To 
heighten the importance but conceal the cause seemed 
wise. Of course presently he must take some one into 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


5 


his confidence, and from the depth of his soul he re- 
gretted the necessity. 

That was the curse of kingship — the brain which 
planned, reconciling discordant elements, must rely for 
execution on hands it could not always control. Yes, 
that was the vice of government, and the reason why 
so many well-devised, smoothly-launched schemes ut- 
terly miscarried. If the brain could only be the hands 
also I If the hands could only reach out from where 
the brain pondered and foresaw ! But they could not, 
and so he must trust Commines. Trust Commines I 
A little gust of anger at his impotence shook him and 
he shivered, dashing his hands upon the table ; it was 
never safe to trust any one — never I But he was help- 
less, there was no escape, and in turn Commines must 
trust one other : trust him with execution, that is, with 
blind performance, not with knowledge. Beyond Com- 
mines he would trust no man with knowledge, at least 
not as yet, nor Commines more than he must. Later 
it might be policy to let it be known publicly the great 
danger which had threatened him, and France through 
him, but not till all was over ! 

Till all was over I Again Louis shivered a little, 
but not this time with anger. The phrase was a 
euphemism for death, and he hated the word even 
when wrapped up in a euphemism and applied to 
another. Death was death, disguise it in what phrase 
one might; a horror, a terror, another vice of kings 
worse than the first. It said in plain words, “You can 
sow, but you may never reap ; you can begin, but you 
may never finish. Some one else will reap : some one 


6 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


else will finish.” Some one else! The thought was 
intolerable. He hated, he loathed the some one else as 
he hated and loathed death. With a sweep of his arm, 
as if he thrust some bodily presence from him, Louis 
leaned forward and caught up the despatch. Let him 
make an end to brooding, here was work to be done. 

Having closely examined the seals securing the back 
to make certain they were intact, he ripped apart 
the threads which bound it round and round passing 
through the seals, and drew out the enclosure. It was 
a single sheet of stiff paper. This he unfolded, and 
spreading it fiat upon the table bent over it eagerly. 
But before he could have read three lines he sank back 
in his chair with a cry, and so fierce was his face that 
Saint-Pierre and Leslie, at the end of the gallery, in- 
stinctively drew apart, each suspicious of the other. 
The King’s wrath was like lightning, swift to fall, and 
where it fell there was the danger of sudden destruc- 
tion to those near. 

So he sat for a full minute, his brows drawn, his thin 
lips narrowed to a line, his head sunk between his 
shoulders, then with a sigh audible to the length of 
the gallery he again bent above the paper, resting his 
weight on both arms, as if utterly weary both in body 
and spirit. 

This time the pause was while he might have read 
the page slowly twice over, weighing its sense word by 
word, and when at length he raised his head all passion 
had gone from him ; he was a sorrowful old man, weary 
and worn and grey. 

“ Commines I ” he said harshly, “ send me Com- 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 7 

mines,” and sat back, the paper crumpled lengthwise 
in his hand. 

But he did not sit for long. Rising, he paced up 
the gallery, his head bent, his iron-shod stick striking 
the flags wdth a clang as he leaned upon it at every 
second step, the crumpled paper still caught in his hand. 
At the door he paused, looking up sideways. 

“ Commines ? Where is Commines ? Head of God I 
is there no one to bring me Commines ? ” 

“We have sent for him, sire.” 

“ Sent for him ? Why is he not here when I need 
him ? I am the worse-served king in Christendom. 

No one takes thought, no one cares, no one Who 

is on guard ? Leslie ? Ah I Leslie cares, with Leslie 
I am safe : yes, yes, with Leslie I am safe,” and once 
more he turned away, the iron ringing from the pave- 
ment as before. Suspicion breeds suspicion, and it 
would never do to vex Leslie’s blunt loyalty with 
any seeming distrust. Besides, it was true, he could 
trust Leslie. It was not the same trust as he had in 
Commines ; Leslie would watch over him, would guard 
him at all costs, but Commines would obey and ask no 
questions. 

Three times he had walked the length of the gallery, 
always with growing impatience, and three times turned 
before he heard the sound of whispering at the door, 
and the ring of rapid feet followed him. But he gave 
no sign, and went on his way as if he had heard noth- 
ing. He recognized the footfall, but preferred that 
Commines should reach him as remotely from the door 
as possible. 


8 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


«SireI»’ 

“ Ah ! ” Louis turned with a start. “ You have come 
at last ! At last ! There was a time I was served 
better. But let that pass. Philip, I have had letters.” 

“ Yes, sire, I know : Lessaix told me. ” 

“You know, and Lessaix told you I You watch 
me — spy on me, do you?” 

“Sire, it is my business to know everything which 
touches ” 

“Yes! and what more do you know? Where did 
the post come from, you, whose business it is to know 
everything ? ” 

“ Lessaix thought from Paris.” 

“From Paris,” and Louis raised his voice so that 
the affirmation in it might be clearly heard at the 
further end of the gallery. Then he turned to the 
silent group at the doorway, watchful to seize upon 
any clue to the King’s mystery which might guide 
their feet clear of the pitfalls besetting Valmy. 

“ Let all men go from me but my friend Argenton,” 
he said, with a wave of the hand which still held the 
paper crumpled in the grasp. “ Let the guard remain 
beyond the door, but let no man enter till I give leave. 
Paris ! Let them think Paris,” he went on, lowering 
his voice, “but from you, Philip, I have no secrets. 
We are old friends, too old friends to have secrets one 
from the other, eh, Philip, eh ? Give me your arm that 
I may lean upon it, for I grow tired. It is the heat, 
not that I am ill or weaker ; the heat, the heat, and I 
grow tired. And yet I must walk : I cannot rest ; no, 
not for a moment ; this — this horror has unstrung me. ” 


CHAPTER II 


A LESSON IN OBEDIENCE 

Passing his clenched hand through the crook of 
Commines’ arm, and leaning heavily on the stick in the 
other hand, Louis turned slowly up the gallery, and 
for a time both were silent. They made a strange 
contrast. The King was shrunken, bowed, and bent, a 
veritable walking skeleton to whom the grave already 
imperiously beckoned nor would take long denial. 
With his bony head, his listless face, his lean, long 
neck thrust out from the fur of his upturned collar, 
he resembled a giant bird of prey. The skinny hand 
thrust through the crook of Commines’ arm, and still 
grasping the crumpled despatch, was the claw of a 
vulture. Above him, head and shoulders, towered 
Commines, square-set, burly, muscular, and as full of 
life and vigour as his master was sapless. Just mid- 
way to the threescore years and ten, his bodily powers 
were at their highest, and in the ten years he had 
served Louis his mind had ripened so that few men 
were more astute, more shrewd to see and seize upon 
advantages, whether for himself or his master. In the 
King’s service few scruples troubled him, the question- 
able act was Louis’, his part was to obey. 

“ Then, sire, the post was not from Paris ? ” 

9 


10 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“ From Amboise,” answered Louis» with sudden inci- 
sive vigour, his voice rasping harshly. “From Am- 
boise, where the ungrateful son of a miserable father 
plots and plots and plots : and you, whose business it 
is to know everything, know nothing.” 

“The Dauphin? and plotting against you? But, 
sire, it is impossible. The Dauphin is barely thirteen 
years of age.” 

“The pity of it, Argenton, oh I the pity of it.” 
As he spoke one who did not know him as Commines 
knew him would have sworn that tears were very near 
the dull, dry eyes. “No more than thirteen — no, not 
thirteen, and yet — ah I the pity of it.” 

“Oh, sire, some one has deceived you. The Dau- 
phin is too young to plot, even if affection and com- 
mon nature ” 

“ Too young ? ” broke in Louis, halting in his slow 
walk to strike the pavement angrily with his stick. 
“ At what age does a serpent grow fangs ? Too young ? 
Ill weeds grow apace, and then there may be those 
about him who egg him on, who sow wrong ideas in 
his mind that they may reap some gain to themselves. 
All are not as faithful as thou art, Philip. I have not 
always been merciful — not always. At times justice 
has rejoiced against mercy for the general good ; yes, 
for the general good. There was Molembrais; men 
blame me for Molembrais ; but if the King’s arm be 
not strong enough to strike, who shall hold the king- 
dom in its place ? And because the King’s hand pulls 
down and raises up as God wills” — he paused, and 
bowed with a little gesture of his hand to his cap — 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


11 


“ there are those who do not love me. But if they egg 
on, those others who should be loyal to their King and 
are not, if they suggest, it is my son — my son, Argen- 
ton — who is the very heart and centre ; my son, who 
out of his little twelve years raises his hand against my 
threescore.” 

“ If he has done that,” began Commines, picking his 
words slowly (he had not as yet fathomed Louis’ pur- 
pose, and feared lest he should commit himself in too 
great haste to the wrong policy), “ if the Dauphin has 
truly so forgotten natural love and duty ” 

“If I” With a snarl which showed his gapped and 
yellow teeth Louis again straightened himself, and as 
he raised his head beyond the reflected glow of the 
scarlet cloak his face was grey with passion. “ If ? If ? 
Head of God, man ! do you dare talk to me in ‘ ifs ’ ? 
Philip de Commines, when you were little in your own 
eyes, when you were the humble fetcher and carrier to 
that Bully of Burgundy whom I crushed, when you were 
the very hound and cur of his pleasure, fawning on him 
for the scraps of life, I took you up, I ! — I ! Now you 
are Lord of Argenton, now you are Seneschal of Poitou, 
now you are Prince of Talmont, and I have made you 
all these, I ! — I ! and you answer me with an ‘ if ’ ! 
But the hand which raised you up can drag down, you 
who answer me with an ‘if.’ The hand which drew 
from the mud can fling into the ditch, you who answer 
me with an ‘if.’ And, by God! I’ll do it I An ‘if’? 
We say ‘ifs ’ to fools. Was I a fool to turn the lick- 
shoe of Charles the Bully into the Prince of Talmont ? 
Was I a fool to grope in the mud for a Seneschal of 


12 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


Poitou ? Am I a fool now — I, who have held the 
strings of all Europe in my hand for thirty years, and 
loosed or ravelled them as suited the greatness of 
France? God be my witness, all has been for the 
greatness of France ! France comes first, always first. 
And now, when I say my son plots against me, that 
twelve-year boy who is of an age to be king, am I 
a fool and liar? Does this lie? Answer me, Argenton, 
does this lie?” And wrenching his hand free from 
Commines he shook the paper passionately above his 
head. 

So sudden and so fierce was the attack, so full of 
bitter venom and raw rage, so brutally naked and 
perilous in its threat, that Commines fairly quailed. 
The florid ruddiness of his fleshy face faded to a pallor 
more cadaverous than the unhealthy grey of Louis’ 
sunken cheeks as he remembered Molembrais. At 
the door stood the guards with crossed pikes, beyond 
these were Leslie and Saint-Pierre, watchful and alert. 
He was loved little better than his master, and he knew 
it. Let the King speak and there would be no hesi- 
tancy, little pity. In his rapid rise he had kicked 
many rivals from the ladder of Court favour, and 
climbed yet higher by trampling them underfoot, 
caring little what gulf of disgrace or worse swallowed 
them. And the King’s threat was no idle boast ; the 
hand which had raised could drag down, not only to 
irremediable disaster, but to the very grave itself. A 
hand ? A beckoning finger to those who waited at the 
door would be enough, and Commines trembled. 

“ Sire, sire,” he cried, his arms raised in protest and 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


13 


supplication, “ how have I offended you ? In what 
have I been ungrateful ? I meant no more but that it 
seemed impossible a son could turn against so good, so 
great a father. That — that — staggered me for the 
moment. It beggared reason; it — it — but let me 
read the despatch for myself, sire. Not for belief, but 
for comprehension, and that we may meet the blow 
together, that we may turn it aside — may turn it back 
on — on — the hand that strikes.” 

“ Aye ! ” said Louis drily, “ that is more like the 
Commines of old, the Commines who served his 
master without an ‘if.’ And that is a good phrase of 
yours — turn back the blow on the hand that strikes! 
When that is done, and the time comes for reward, 
I will not forget that it was your phrase. And it was 
for that I sent for you : I knew my friend Commines 
would find a way to — to — guard his master effectu- 
ally.” 

Before Louis ended all the harshness had gone from 
his voice, and it became marvellously gentle, marvel- 
lously kindly, almost caressing. A master student of 
the subtle trifles which unconsciously influence great 
events, he played upon men’s minds as a skilled musi- 
cian on his instrument, and they obeyed the touch. 
Nor was Philip de Commines, opportunist, political 
adventurer, philosopher, soldier of fortune, diplomatist, 
exempt from the influence of that skilful mastery. 
As he had gloomed so now he gladdened : he squared 
his shoulders to his fullest height, filling his lungs with 
a deeper inspiration, and the colour ran back to his 
cheeks in flood. Nor was it all in pride ; there was 


14 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


relief, and the lifting up of a burden which for one 
terrible moment had threatened to crush him to the 
earth itself. 

But the life which gave its strength to the hand 
which lifted and dragged down was frail almost to ex- 
tinction, and remembering that one day the Dauphin 
must step into Louis’ place Commines ventured to 
temporize. 

“Yes, sire, but to turn back the blow I must know 
who aims the blow, whence it comes, where it will 
strike, and when. To fight in the dark is to waste 
strength. Have I your leave to read the despatch 
from Amboise ? ” 

“Eh?” With the gesture of a natural impulse 
Louis held out the paper, then drew it back. “We 
will wait a little. I am tired, very tired. This shock 
has unnerved me. Let me sit down, Philip, and rest.” 

Slowly, with an arm on Commines’ shoulder, he 
turned and, sinking into the chair, leaned forward 
upon the table in an attitude of utter weariness, his 
hand still resting upon the despatch. So there was 
a pause for a moment, Commines standing to one 
side, silent and ill at ease. Then with a sigh, which 
was almost a groan, Louis roused himself. Reaching 
out his hand he raised to his lips a little silver image 
of Saint Denis, one of a group which filled a corner of 
the table, some standing upright, some pitched upon 
their faces without regard to reverence or respect. 
Kissing it fervently he again sighed, his eyes raised to 
the groined roof, and shook his head sadly. If Saint 
Denis did not whisper inspiration he at least spun out 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 15 

the time for thought. Commiues’ request was reason- 
able, and he was at a loss how plausibly to evade it. 

“ Have I your leave, sire ? ” 

“Eh?” Down came the King’s hand upon the 
paper. Saint Denis grasped, baton-fashion, by the 
feet. “No, Philip, no, I think not. It is in confi- 
dence, and above all things a king must respect con- 
fidence, or how could he be trusted?” A sentence 
which sounded strange from the lips of a man who 
never kept a treaty he could break to his own ad- 
vantage, or, to give him his due, to the advantage of 
France. 

“That I can understand,” answered Commines, as 
gravely as if his master’s tortuous road to the con- 
solidation of the kingdom had not been strewn with 
ruptured contracts, unscrupulous chicanery, and sol- 
emn pledges brazenly evaded. “But how am I to 
act? How can I, in the dark, parry a blow from the 
dark ? ” 

“ Suspect every one,” answered Louis, brushing aside 
Saint Denis as he turned sharply in his chair. The 
saint had served his turn. He had been invoked in a 
perplexity, and now that the way was clear, no doubt 
in answer to the invocation, he was flung aside without 
ceremony. “Suspect every one. To suspect all you 
meet is the first great rule of prudence, wisdom, suc- 
cess ; and to suspect your own self is the second. Go 
to Amboise. Remember there is no if, and sift, search, 
find, but especially find.” 

“ Find what, sire ? ” 

For answer Louis clutched the paper yet tighter and 


16 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


shook it in the air, and if Commines could but have 
guessed it, there was a double meaning in the action 
and the words which accompanied it. 

Find this ! ” 

“ And having found?” Commines paused, conscious 
that the ground was treacherous under his feet. “Sire, 
remember he is the Dauphin and the son of France.” 


CHAPTER III 


FOR A woman’s sake 

With a quick gesture, the arm thrust out, the hand 
open, the fingers spread, Louis shrank back, his other 
arm across his face. It was a movement eloquent of 
pathos, despair, and suffering ; then, with another sigh, 
he straightened himself, his corpse-like face pinched 
with care. 

“ The son of France I ” he repeated. “ Yes ! the son 
of France ! but, Philip, my friend, my one friend, must 
the father perish for the son ? ” 

“ Oh, sire, sire,” cried Commines, deeply moved, both 
by the words and the appeal in the voice. ‘‘Never that. 
And it is true — you are France, France itself as no King 
ever has been; France in its strength, France in its 

hope, and God knows what evil will befall ” He 

checked himself sharply as a spasm twisted the King’s 
sunken mouth. Carried away by his sympathy he had 
forgotten that it was an almost unforgivable offence to 
hint that Louis was not immortal. For him the word 
death was wiped from the language. If the dread 
shadow took form to strike, those near might say 
“Speak little,” or “Confess,” but nothing more. 

But for once the offence passed without rebuke; it 
c 17 


18 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


was even seized upon to point a moral, and nerving 
himself to face the thought the King completed the 
sentence. 

“God knows what evil will befall France in a boy’s 
hands ! And within a year he will be of age ; of age 
and yet a child. A puppet king of France ! ” Louis 
paused, drawing in his breath with a shudder like a 
man chilled to the marrow. “ A puppet, a puppet, and 
in the hands of a puppet what must the end be ? Ah ! 
France ! France ! France ! It is disaster, unless it 
can be turned aside. Philip, you must go to Amboise. 
Take with you some one you can trust, if in all Valmy 
there is such an one ! ” 

“There is, sire; one I can trust as my King can 
trust me.” 

“ Yes, yes, but not overmuch ; do not trust him over- 
much. Remember what I said — suspect, suspect.” 

“I am not afraid, sire, Stephen La Mothe owes every- 
thing to me.” 

“Gratitude? Is that any reason for faithfulness? 
Piff ! ” And the King blew out his thin lips in con- 
tempt. “ To bind men to you, Commines, to bind them 
so that you may sleep easy o’ nights, you must hold 
them either by the fear of to-day or the hope of to- 
morrow. Gratitude ! Thanks for eaten bread ! How 
many are there who owe me everything, and yet have 
turned against me. But let that pass ; may God and 
the Saints forgive them as I do.” Louis paused, and 
a sardonic smile flickered for an instant across his face. 
If God and the Saints had no more forgiveness for his 
enemies than he had, then their prospects in the life to 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


19 


come were as miserable as Louis would have made the 
remnant of their days in this present world if they but 
fell into his power. “And this La Mothe,” he went 
on, “there is no need to tell him all we know. To 
tell all you know is to lose your advantage. And 
why should he be faithful? Why does he owe you 
everything ? ” 

“ I promised his sister — it was years ago ” 

“A woman? Um, I do not like women. The ways 
of men I can follow, but the ways of women are beyond 
me. Seven devils were cast out of one, but not from 
the rest, and so there is no understanding them. No, 
I do not like women.” 

“Sire, she is long dead.” 

“Yes? That makes it safer, but I do not see that 
it is any reason for trusting the brother. Take him 
with you to Amboise if you think he is safe, but re- 
member ” — and the King’s lean hand was shaken sud- 
denly upward almost in Commines’ face, a threat as 
well as a warning — “I hold you responsible, you, you, 
you only. Let him be with you, but not of you ; let 
him enter Amboise apart from you, and let him work 
out of sight like a mole, obeying orders without know- 
ing why he obeys. Then if he fails, or blunders, or is 
fool enough to be caught spying, you can disown him, 
can wash your hands of him, and let him hang ! Um ! 
You don’t like it? I see in your face that you don’t 
like it. Will you never learn that a face has a tongue 
of its own to be used to conceal our thoughts? But 
yours — I know your thought. The woman ! Bah ! 
the woman is dead.” 


20 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“Sire, a promise to the dead is like a vow to the 
Saints; none can give it back.” 

“Um ! a vow to the Saints? But we must have the 
Saints on our side. Let me see — let me see. Yes! 
Take him with you, openly or secretly as you will, and 
if he bungles I shall deal with him. That frees you 
from your promise. The justice of the King ! Eh, 
Philip I will the justice of the King please you better?” 

The justice of the King ! Louis sat back in his 
chair as he spoke, his blotched gums showing in a grin 
between his thin lips, his dull eyes half veiled by the 
drooping of the leaden-hued lids. More than ever he 
was a mask of death, but of a death that possessed a 
grim humour, malevolent in its satirical cynicism. The 
justice of the King. Who should know that justice so 
well as Commines, its minister for almost a dozen 
years, or who so testify to its stern implacability? 
None escaped the rigid iron of its wrath. Their almost 
royal blood saved neither the Duke of Nemours nor the 
Count of Armagnac. Saint-Pol, Constable of France, 
perished on the scaffold. Besides these a score of the 
greater nobles of France had fallen, nor could the scar- 
let of the Cardinalate shield Balue from its vengeance. 
If these, the great ones of the chess-board, were beyond 
the pale of mercy, what hope would there be for a sim- 
ple pawn like Stephen La Mothe, if once he fell beneath 
that inflexible ban? And yet to the courtier the 
King’s question could have but one reply. 

“The justice of the King,” repeated Commines; 
and added, without thought of irreverence, “ Let him 
fall into the hands of God and not of man.” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


21 


“Good!” The thin lips twitched, and deep in the 
dead eyes a sombre fire glowed. It warmed his cold 
humour to read so plainly the thought hidden behind 
the smooth words. But to a mind as fertile as the 
King’s that very thought was a suggestion. It would 
be well that this La Mothe should clearly understand 
all he had to fear ; and not to fear only but also to 
hope. The justice of the King could raise up as well 
as cast down, could reward without measure as well as 
crush without mercy. 

“Go to Amboise. Be myself in Amboise. If — I 
use your own word, Philip — if justice must strike 

Ah I poor wretched King and yet more wretched 

father I — be thou the King’s justice, be thou the King’s 
hand in Amboise, and let this Monsieur La Mothe be 
your ears, your eyes. And — um — yes, let me see this 
La Mothe before you leave ; I am, as you know, some- 
thing of a judge of men. To-morrow will do, and the 
next day you can go to Amboise.” 

“And my commission, sire? My authority to act 
on your behalf?” 

“Commission?” The plaintive, gentle calm of the 
King’s voice broke up in storm. Leaning forward 
Louis tapped his finger-tips on the table noisily. “ Sift, 
search, find, find, there is your commission. Authority ? 
Um — um — when Absalom rebelled against David did 
J oab, the king’s servant, say, ‘ Where is my authority ? ’ 
Rebellion is your authority ; the safety of your King is 
your authority ; the plot against France is your author- 
ity. For such crimes there is none above justice. Mon- 
sieur d’Argenton, none — none. But justice is like 


22 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


truth, and sometimes dwells in shadow. Do you 
understand? Justice, but no scandal. We must be 
circumspect. There must be no shock to public 
thought in France. It is the curse and fate of kings 
to be misjudged. Justice might well come by way of 
accident. And — let me see! This La Mothel He 
owes you everything and you say he can be trusted?” 

“Yes, sire, but I have been thinking ” 

“Then, Philip, tell him something of what I have 

told you. The danger ” The King again shook 

in the air the crumpled despatch which had never been 
exposed, never left his grasp for an instant. “The 
danger to me — to France — to you, above all to you 
who vouch for him. He owes you everything as you 
owe me, perhaps he will understand as you do ? ” 

“ But, sire,” said Commines again, striving hard to 
keep his voice unemotional, “while you spoke I have 
been thinking. I fear Stephen La Mothe is too young, 
too inexperienced, for so grave a mission.” 

“And are there two in Valmy you can trust with 
your life? Too young? No I To be young is to be 
generous, to be young is to dream dreams. The gen- 
erosity of his youth will repay you all he thinks he 
owes, and will not count the cost : the dreams will see 
the glory of serving France. Age brings caution, 
Philip ; age brings too much of the weighing of conse- 
quence ; and at Amboise a little incaution will be good, 
incaution of himself, you understand. He owes you 
everything; let him get it into his head that you are 
the gainer by his incaution — as you will be, Philip, 
as you will be, and he too. There ! That is settled. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


23 


Send him to me to-morrow. Move the brazier nearer 
to me, then go. Nearer yet; within reach of my hand. 
There ! that will do.’’ 

But filled by a fear he dared not show Commines 
still lingered. Across the gulf of the past years came 
the voice of the dear, dead woman, the voice of the lost 
love of his youth, lost while youth was generous, while 
youth dreamed dreams and loved passionate. It was 
the sweetest voice he had ever known ; sweet in itself 
because of itself, caressing, gentle, sweeter still because 
passionate love had throbbed through it. “ Watch over 
him, Philip, for my sake,” it said, and she had died 
comforted by his promises, died trusting him. And 

now But while he hesitated, willing but afraid 

to dare, Louis bestirred himself. Resting one arm upon 
the table he pushed himself half upright with the other 
hand, and so, half poised, pointed forward at the door. 
A blotch of crimson showed upon the cheek-bones and 
the dull eyes glowed. 

“ God’s name, man I did you not hear me? Do you 
serve me or the Dauphin? Which? Go ! go ! go ! ” 

This time Commines obeyed, and obeyed in silence. 
The King’s question was not one which called for an 
answer ; or rather he understood that Amboise must 
give the answer, give it emphatically and without a 
quibble. Once outside the door he paused. Between 
Saint-Pierre, Leslie, and himself no love was lost, but 
the bond of a united watchfulness against a common 
danger bound them to mutual service. 

“Where was it from?” asked Saint-Pierre. But 
Commines shook his head, running his fingers inside 


24 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


the collar of his doublet significantly. Complacency, 
even when it was the complacency of self-defence, had 
its limits. 

“I dare not,” he whispered back. “He is in the 
mood of the devil. What is he doing now?” 

As if playing the part of sentry Saint-Pierre turned 
and walked twice or thrice up and down before the 
open door, glancing cautiously within. 

“ Tearing the despatch, and burning it piecemeal in 
the brazier.” 

“I feared as much. If you love yourselves, gentle- 
men, see that you do not cross him to-day. And when 
I am gone from Valmy walk warily.” 

“ Where are you going. Monsieur de Commines ? ” 

“To Amboise, and I would have given a thousand 
crowns for one look at that despatch.” 

But it is a question whether the look would have 
taught him much, though he had studied the paper for 
an hour. It was blank; beyond the superscription and 
the “ Louis ” sprawled across the corner there was not 
one single word. And yet, to one trained by ten years 
service in his master’s ways of crooked cunning the 
very blank would have been eloquent of warning. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE JUSTICE OP THE KING 

As Commines crossed the courtyard to his lodgings 
his face was puckered with anxious thought. Many a 
time he had fished for his master in waters both foul 
and troubled, but always he had known the prey he an- 
gled for. Now, and he shook his head like a man who 
argues against his doubts, but with little hope of com- 
pelling conviction, he was not sure. Or was it that he 
was afraid to be sure ? Was he afraid to say bluntly out, 
even in the secret of his own mind, the King desires 
the death of the Dauphin and for good cause ? 

That there might well be cause, that there might 
well be a sinister upheaval against the King with the 
Dauphin as its rallying centre he could easily believe, 
even without the evidence of the despatch. France 
had never yet known such a nation-builder as Louis. 
His quarries had lain north, south, and east. In his 
twenty-two years upon the throne he had added to the 
crown Artois, Burgundy, the northern parts of Picardy, 
Anjou, Franche-Comte, Provence, and Roussillon. To 
secure such a wholesale aggrandizement he had been 
unscrupulous in chicanery, sleepless in his aggression, 
ruthless to the extremest verge of cruelty; no treaty had 
25 


26 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


been too solemn to tear up, no oath too sacred for viola- 
tion, no act of blood too pitiless. 

With Louis the one sole question had ever been. Does 
it advantage France? If it did, then his hand struck 
or his cunning filched, careless of right or privileges. 
As he had said, and said truly, France came first. It 
was his one justification for the unjustifiable. No I 
Never such a nation-builder and never a man so 
feared and hated for valid cause. He was the King of 
the greatest, the most powerful France Europe had ever 
known, but it was a miserable France, a France seething 
with wretchedness, with discontent, and each hour he 
went in terror for his life. Only a few, such as Corn- 
mines himself, could foresee how great would one day 
be the power of these weak, antagonistic states he had 
so ruthlessly welded into one. For the rest, France was 
so full of unhappiness and dread that the Dauphin 
might well be the centre of a plot, a plot to murder the 
father in the son’s name for the relief of the nation. 
But was the Dauphin himself concerned in the plot, or 
had he that knowledge which, prince though he was, 
laid him open to the penalty for blood-guiltiness? 
These were the questions which troubled Commines. 

Clearly — and as he followed his train of thought he 
turned aside, his hands locked behind him, his head 
bowed, and walked up and down in the shadow flung 
by the gloomy range of buildings which cut the court- 
yard into two halves — clearly the King had no doubt: 
clearly the despatch had left no room for doubt. Or 
else — the thought was contemptible, but it refused to 
be thrust aside — the King wished to have no room for 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


27 


doubt. The frown deepened on Commines’ face as he 
remembered how often the King’s wishes had been 
master of the truth. 

But could any father be cursed with such a terrible 
wish? Yes, when the father was that complex, un- 
happy man, Louis of France. Commines knew the 
King as no man else knew him, and in the gloomy 
depths of that knowledge he found two reasons why 
the father would have no sorrow for the death of the 
son. It was characteristic of Louis to hate and dread 
his natural successor, nor did his distrustful fears pause 
to consider that if the Dauphin was swept aside Charles 
of Orleans would stand in his son’s place. When that 
day came he would hate and dread Charles as his sus- 
picious soul now hated and dreaded the Dauphin. 

The other reason he had himself unveiled to Com- 
mines, no doubt with a set purpose. Behind the King’s 
most trivial act there was always a set purpose. In a 
boy’s feeble hands, a puppet as he had called him, a 
king in legal age and yet a child in years and ignorance, 
this great France he had built up so laboriously would 
crumble into ruin. Louis was a statesman first and a 
father afterwards. So Commines must go to Amboise, 
must sift, search, find — but especially find. Find 
what? His question had been answered — find and 
prove the boy’s guilty knowledge. But having found, 
having proved that the King’s fears'* were terribly justi- 
fied, what then ? The answer to that question touched 
the hopes of his ambition. Upon most men death steals 
unawares, but for Louis the edge of the grave crumbled 
in the sight of all who served him, nor, when the end 


28 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


came, would it linger in the coming. Supposing death 
struck down the King while he, Commines, was still at 
Amboise, finding? What then? The opportunist in 
Commines was vigilantly awake, that nice sense which 
discriminates the rising power and clings to its skirts. 
The Dauphin would be King of France. For the third 
time he asked himself. What then? 

It was a relief to his perplexity that a cheery full- 
noted whistle broke across the question, a whistle 
which from time to time slipped into a song whose 
words Commines could hear in part : 

“ Heigh-ho 1 Love’s but a pain, 

Love’s but a bitter-sweet, lasts an hour : 

Heigh-ho ! Sunshine and rain 1 
If it’s so brief whence comes love’s power ? 

Wherefore so clearly. 

Sweetly and dearly — ” 

and the song ran again into a whistle. 

At the sound the gravity faded from Commines’ face 
and the coarse set mouth grew almost tender. It was 
Stephen La Mothe : and whatever the words might be, 
the lad surely knew little of love when he so lightly 
marred his own sentiment. A lover sighing for his 
mistress would have sighed less blithesomely and to 
the very end of his plaint. Presently the voice rose 
afresh : 

“ Heigh-ho ! where dost thou hide, 

Love, that I seek for thee, high and low ? 

Heigh-ho ! world, thou art wide, 

Heat of the summer and cold of the snow. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


29 


April so smiling, 

June so beguiling, 

Let us forget, love, that winter’s storms blow.” 

Entering the narrow hall, lit only from the courtyard 
and with a much-shadowed stairway rising from the fur- 
ther end, Commines pushed open a door on his right, 
fastening it behind him as he entered. 

“Stephen, Stephen, what do you know of June and 
December, love’s sunshine and the cold of the snow ? ” 
he said railingly. 

“Nothing at all. Uncle, and just as much as I want 
to know,” was the answer. “ But a song must have a 
theme or there’d be no song.” 

“ And you think love is a better theme than the text 
you hold on your knee.” 

“ Yes : for a song. If it was a tale, now, or an epic, 
it would be a different matter. But they are beyond 
me, both of them. Do you think. Uncle,” and La 
Mothe turned over the arquebuse Commines had 
pointed at in jest as it lay on his lap, “ this will ever 
be better than a curious toy ? I think it is quite use- 
less. By the time you could prime it here, set your 
tinder burning and touch it off there, I would have my 
sword through you six times over.” 

“ Charles the Rash found it no toy in the hands 
of the Swiss at Morat,” replied Commines. “But 
toy or no toy, put it aside while I talk to you. 
Stephen, my son, I fear I have done you an ill turn 
to-day.” 

“Then it is the first of your life,” answered La Mothe 
cheerily, as he stood the weapon upright in the angle of 


30 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


the wall. “ It would need a good many ill turns to set 
the balance even between us, Uncle Philip.” 

“No. One thoughtless act which cannot be re- 
called or undone may outweigh a life. And so with 
this. Stephen, I have commended you to the King for 
service.” 

La Mothe leaped to his feet, laying his hands on 
Commines’ shoulders impulsively, one upon each. And 
if proof were needed of the relations between these two, 
it would be found in the spontaneous frankness of the 
gesture : Philip de Commines was not a man with whom 
to take liberties, but there stood La Mothe almost rock- 
ing the elder man in the fullness of his satisfaction. 

“ At last,” he cried. “ I have been eating my heart 
out for this for a week past ! And you call that an 
ill turn ? ” 

“ Stop ! Stop ! Stop ! ” and Commines, smiling 
through his gravity, followed the other’s gesture so 
that the two stood face to face, locked the one to the 
other at arm’s length. 

How like the lad was to Suzanne : a man’s strong 
likeness of a woman’s sweet face. There were the 
same clear expressive eyes, ready to light with laughter 
or darken with sympathy; the same sensitive firm 
mouth and squared chin, fuller and stronger as became 
a man and yet Suzanne’s in steadfastness to the life ; 
the same broad forehead and arched brows ; the same 
unconscious trick of fiushing in moments of excitement. 
Even the colour of the hair was the same, with the 
curious ruddy copper tint running through the brown 
in certain lights. 


THE JUSTICE OF TOE KING 


31 


Yes ; it was Suzanne’s self, Suzanne whom he had 
loved as he had never loved Helene de Chambes, his 
wife these nine years past ! Suzanne whom he still 
loved with that reverence which belongs alone to 
the gentle dead : Suzanne for whom even now his 
spirit cried out in these rare moments when it broke 
through the cynical, selfish crust which had hardened 
upon him since Suzanne died. So for Suzanne’s sake 
he called Stephen his son, though there was no such 
difference in age, nor any drop of blood relationship. 

“ Do you know,” he went on, gravely tender in the 
memory of the dead woman, “ that a king’s service 
brings with it a king’s risks ? ” 

“ And did Monsieur de Perche call me coward when 
he wrote to you ? ” 

“No; he said many things which it were better a 
boy should not know were said. Conceit is only too 
ready to take youth by the arm.” 

“And am I such a boy? Surely four-and- 
twenty ” 

“ Are you so old ? It always comes as an astonish- 
ment when those we love are no longer children. It is 
then we realize how the years have passed.” 

“ So old. Uncle. Four-and-twenty is no boy.” 

“ A man in years, a boy at heart. Be a boy at heart 
as long as you can, Stephen, for so will you keep your 
conscience clean before God. And yet what use has 
the King for a boy’s service ? ” 

“ Teach the boy to be a man in thought that he may 
find a use for himself, Uncle ; and who can do that so 
well as you ? ” 


32 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


Commines let his hands fall to his sides and turned 
away, pacing the room with short strides. His man’s 
thoughts were not always such as he would care to 
teach Stephen La Mothe. 

“To the King’s service every man must bring his 
own thought.” 

“ And did Monsieur de Perche call me fool when he 
wrote to you ? ” 

“ No : but the little things of Marbahan are poor 
training for the greater things of Valmy, of Blois, of 
Plessis, of Amboise, of Paris.” 

“But truth and faithfulness and courage are the 
same everywhere, and whether at Marbahan or Valmy 
a man can but serve God and the King with the best 
wits God has given him, and that I’ll do.” 

“ Aye ! ” said Commines drily, “ but what of that 
Heigh-ho song of yours ? When love knocks on one 
door the service of the King may get bundled out of 
the other.” 

Stephen La Mothe laughed a hearty, wholesome 
laugh, pleasant to hear. There was nothing of self-con- 
sciousness in it, and no protest could have more clearly 
proved that the mental comment of Commines’ shrewd- 
ness had read the broken melody aright. 

“ That is easily settled. All His Majesty has to do 
is to find me a wife of seven thousand crowns a year 
with two or three little additions to give salt to their 
spending. Item, eyes which see straight ; item, a 
mouth that’s sweet for kissing ; item, a temper as sweet 
as the mouth ; item, a proper appreciation of my great 
merit. But, Uncle, what is the service?” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


33 


‘‘That the King will tell you himself. And, lad, 
when kings talk it is a simple man’s duty to listen and 
obey. Stephen, whatever the service may be, do it.” 

“Gratefully and faithfully, Uncle. Anything my 
honour ” 

“ Honour ? God’s name, boy, the King’s honour is 
your honour ; the King’s service, no matter what it 
may be, is your honour. Are you, a milk-child from 
Marbahan, knowing nothing of the ways of men, to 
talk of your honour to the King ? ” 

“ Yes, but Uncle, Monsieur de Perche taught 
me ” 

“Monsieur de Perche? Monsieur de Perche taught 
you many admirable truths, I don’t doubt. That he 
might so teach you I placed you in his. household 
seven years ago. Monsieur de Perche has taught you 
the use of arms, and that courtesy which next to arms 
goes to the making of a man. But what can a simple 
gentleman in the wilds of Poitou know of a king’s ser- 
vice? and above all, of such a King? His little house- 
hold with its round of petty thought was his great 
world, and a trial of hawks an event to be talked of for 
a week ; but all France is the household of the King, 
and beyond the borders the eagles of Europe are poised 
to harry us. But while he lives they are afraid to 
swoop. While he lives, yes, while he lives.” 

“ But after him comes the Dauphin ? ” 

“ A child ! a puling, weakling, feeble child. Stephen, 
as king the Dauphin spells disaster.” 

“ He will have you to guide him. Uncle, and under 


you 


34 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


But Commines silenced him with a gesture full of 
angry denial. Unconsciously La Mothe had put his 
finger on a rankling sore. 

“ With the Dauphin king my career ends ! ” he said 
harshly. “ He and those around him hate me as they 
hate his father ; hate me because I am faithful to the 
father. And yet, Stephen, I have sometimes thought — 
this is for you alone — it might be that if in some crisis 
of his life I served the Dauphin as I served his father 
— but no ! no ! no ! Even then it is doubtful, worse 
than doubtful. If Charles of Orleans were king it 
would be different. He is no child and old enough to 
be grateful. Always remember, Stephen, that a child 
is never grateful; it forgets too soon.” 

“And I am a grown man. Uncle, and so never can 
forget.” 

“I know, my son,” and Commines’ stern eyes soft- 
ened. “ I told the King you were faithful, and already 
he trusts you as I trust you,” which was rather an 
overstatement of the case, seeing that Louis trusted no 
man, not even Commines’ self. “ To-morrow you are 
to see him.” 

“ Then I hope his service, no matter what it is, will 
take me out of Valmy.” 

“ Why ? ” 

For a moment La Mothe hesitated. The thought 
in his mind seemed at variance with his assertions of 
maturity and manhood, but he spoke it with charac- 
teristic frankness. 

“ Valmy frightens me.” 

“ Why ? ” repeated Commines. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


35 


“ Because of its silences, its coldness, its inhumanity 
— no, not inhumanity, its inhumanness. In Valmy no 
man sings ; in Valmy few men laugh. When they 
speak they say little and their eyes are always afraid. 
And they are afraid ; I see it, and I am growing afraid 
too.” 

“ But half an hour ago you were singing ? ” 

“But I am only nine days in Valmy. And some- 
times when I sing I remember where I am and stop 
suddenly. It is as indecent as if one sang in the house 
of the dead. Soon I shall always remember and not 
sing at all. And I do not wonder that few men laugh.” 

“ Why ? ” asked Commines for the third time. This 
was a new side to Stephen La Mothe and one that in 
the King’s service — not forgetting his own — should 
not be ignored. Often in his career he had seen a 
well-laid plan miscarry because some seeming trivial- 
ity was ignored. Was it not one of Louis’ aphorisms 
that life held nothing really trivial ? 

“ Because it is a house of the living dead.” 

“ For God’s sake, Stephen, hush. If the King heard 
you speak of his feebleness in such a way there would 
be a sudden end to both you and your service.” 

“ The King ? But I don’t mean the King. I 
mean ” He paused as if searching for a com- 

prehensive word or phrase, and presently he found 
it. “I mean the justice of the King.” 

“Well?” Commines’ throat seemed suddenly to 
have gone dry, so that the word came harshly. 
Within the hour the King had used the same phrase, 
and the coincidence startled him unpleasantly. 


36 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


But La Mothe made no immediate reply. To an- 
swer the little jerked-out dry interrogatory in concise 
words was not easy. He knew his own meaning 
clearly enough, but how was he to make it equally 
clear to Commines, who was plainly unsympathetic? 
When at last he spoke it was with a hesitation which 
was almost an apology. 

“As I passed through Thouars on my way from 
Poitou — you know Thouars, Uncle?” 

“Yes: goon.” 

“ Then you know its market-place with the little 
shops all round and the church of St. Laon to the 
side : a cobble-paved space where the children play ? 
At the one end there was a ring of black and white 
ashes with the heat still in them, and in the middle 
a Thing which hung by chains from an iron stake. It 
had been a man that morning, but there it hung by 
the spine with the chains through its ribs ; a man no 
more, only blackened bones and little crisped horrors 
here or there. Round it two or three score, white- 
faced women and children mostly, stood and gaped, 
or talked in whispers, pointing. Presently the little 
children will play there, and shout and sing and laugh, 
and the women gossip or buy and sell.” 

“ A coiner,” said Commines. “ The King must see 
that the silver is full weight.” 

“ Yes, Uncle : but I have heard that sometimes the 
King himself has coined ” 

“ Hush, boy : the King is King.” 

“Then at Tours, as I rode through the Rue des 
Trois Pucelles, there was a house with a fine bold 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


37 


front. One would say that a man with the soul of 
an artist lived in it. There were brave carvings on 
the stout oak door, carvings on the stone divisions 
of its five windows, strong iron bars of very choice 
smith- work, twisted and hammered, to keep the com- 
mon folk from tumbling into the cellars, and in the 
peaked roof of fair white plaster were driven great 
nails from which hung fags of rope, and from one 
something which was no rope, but a poor wisp of hu- 
manity staring horribly aslant above a broken neck.” 

“Yes,” said Commines, “Tristan’s house. He is 
the King’s Provost-Marshal and — and ” 

“Yes, I know. Uncle. He carries out the justice 
of the King. But to hang a fellow-Christian over 
one’s own hall-door is a strange taste.” 

“Stephen, take my advice and have naught to do 
with Tristan by word or deed. And no doubt the 
fellow deserved his hanging.” 

“That he may have naught to do with me is my 
hope,” answered La Mothe,” with a little laugh which 
had no humour in it. “ And as to deserts, he drank 
overmuch and beat the watch. Truly a vicious rascal ! 
God send us all sober to bed. Uncle, and may a sudden 
end find nothing worse on our conscience than a dizzy 
brain. But that’s not all. Midway between the castle 
and the Loire stands the Valmy gibbet, fair set in the 
sunshine and for all to see : and as I rode past there 
were two hung from it ; two hang from it still, but 
they are not the same two.” 

“Thieves,” said Commines. “Would you have the 
roads unsafe ? ” 


38 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“ One of to-daj’s couple is a boy of twelve — unripe 
fruit for such a tree, Uncle, and a fearsome danger to 
the peace of France. Tristan does well to keep the 
roads safe from such swaggerers. Twelve years of life, 
twelve years of a pinched stomach, and — the justice 
of the King to end it all I And what of the woman 
who gathered nettles for the pot from the river-bank ? 
The archers shouted to her, but she was hungry, poor 
starved soul, and gathered on, bent to all-fours like a 
beast. Then they shot her — like a beast. Down she 
went with an arrow through the bent back ; a woman. 
Uncle.” 

“She should have hearkened and kept away,” said 
Commines. “Neither man nor woman may come near 
Valmy without permission when the King is here.” 

“She should have hearkened,” echoed La Mothe. 
“But the Good God had sealed her ears; she was 
deaf as a stone and so for the justice of the King she 
died. Then three days ago it was Guy de Molem- 
brais, who came to Valmy — so ’tis said — with the 
King’s safe-conduct.” 

“Moleinbrais lost his head as a traitor,” answered 
Commines roughly. 

“ And the safe-conduct ? ” 

“ The safe-conduct was given before Molembrais’ 
treason was fully proved.” 

“ Then it is the King’s justice to lure suspects ” 

“ There can be no faith with traitors. Did the safe- 
conduct make his treason less ? Do you not see,” he 
went on, as La Mothe made no reply, “ that Molembrais 
got no more than his deserts ? ” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


39 


“ Like the brawler in Tours,” said the lad whim- 
sically, “ Perhaps Tristan gave him a safe-conduct 
too, and the fool got drunk. And if we have good, 
warm blood in us we all get drunk sooner or later. 
Yes, and please God my time will come, but may the 
Saints send me far from Valmy ! You think I’m talk- 
ing nonsense, Uncle ; but Monsieur de Perche always 
let me talk. He said it was better to let blow at the 
bung than burst the cask.” 

“You drunk I” answered Commines jestingly. La 
Mothe had been on very dangerous ground and a change 
of subject was an unspeakable relief. “ Why, except 
the King, no man in Valmy drinks less wine.” 

“ Wine-drunk? Am I a beast. Uncle, that you should 
say such a thing ? No, not wine-drunk. Love-drunk, 
war-drunk, fighting-drunk. To feel the nerves tingle, 
the blood run hot, the heart go throbbing mad I to feel 
a glorious exultation quiver through you like — yes. 
Uncle, I know I’m a fool, but it’s not so long since you 
were young yourself.” 

“ Nor am I so old yet, Stephen boy. When that day 
of your drunkenness comes there will either be a very 
happy woman or a sorrowful man.” 

“ Yes, Uncle, if only the King gives me a safe- 
conduct ” 

“ The King requires the attendance of Monsieur 
Stephen La Mothe without delay.” 

With a start like the cringe of a nervous woman 
suddenly frightened, Commines, the man of iron nerves, 
turned to the door, the colour rushing in a flood to his 
face. Neither had heard its latch click nor seen it 


40 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


open, but the broad figure of a burly man was massed 
in the gloom against the greater light from the outer 
entrance. A passing torch, flaring up the hall- way 
from behind, showed him draped from throat to ankle 
in some self-coloured, russet-red, woollen stuff which 
caught the glare, and outlined him for the moment as 
with sweeping curves of blood. To La Mothe he was 
a stranger, but from the little he could see of the shaven 
face, at once harsh and fleshly sensual, he judged him to 
be nearly twenty years older than Commines. 

“You — Tristan ” The surprise had shaken 

even Commines from his self-control and he spoke 
brokenly. “ How long have you been here ? ’’ 

“ Since the King sent me for Monsieur La Mothe. 
At once, if you please. Monsieur.” 

“ But it was to-morrow ” 

“ He has changed his mind. What is to be done 
is best done quickly. You, Monsieur d’Argenton, will 
understand what the King means by quickly. I know 
nothing but that you are to leave Valmy to-morrow 
morning instead of the day after, and so he must see 
Monsieur La Mothe to-night. As Monsieur d’Argen- 
ton’s friend. Monsieur La Mothe, I would advise humble 
acquiescence.” 

“ In what ? ” It was the first time La Mothe had 
spoken, and in his repugnance he could not bring him- 
self to add the courtesy “Monsieur” to the curt question. 

“ Our Master’s will, whatever it may be. It is a 
privilege, young sir, to further the justice of the King.” 

“ The justice of the King I ” replied La Mothe, carried 
hotly away by that repugnance. “ God’s name, Provost- 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


41 


Marshal, I am not — not — not the King’s arm, like 
you,” he added lamely. But though Tristan might 
neither forgive nor forget the suggestion of the broken 
sentence he was not the man to resent it at the moment. 
The King’s arm must endure pin-pricks as well as deal 
justice. It was Commines, rather, who replied. 

“ Hush, Stephen, our friend is entirely right. It is 
you who misunderstand. The King’s justice is in all 
his acts. Yes ! and not only his justice, but his mercy 
and his greatness, and these three have made France 
what she is.” 

“ And all these three are waiting for Monsieur La 
Mothe. Come, young sir, the King is very weary and 
it is time he was in his bed — though I would not 
advise you to tell him so,” and leaving the door open 
behind him Tristan went out into the night: that he 
did so they were sure, for they heard the rasp of his feet 
on the flags of the court. 

“ How long was he there ?” Commines spoke under 
his breath as his fingers closed on La Mothe’s arm with 
a grip which left its mark. “ How long was he listen- 
ing? What did he hear ? You fool, you fool, you may 
have ruined yourself — and me, and me. And why has 
he left us together ? He has some reason for it — some 
end to serve : his own or the King’s. Try and think 
what you said : no, not now, there is no time, but when 
you are with the King, and unsay it, unsay it. And 
Stephen, remember, he is the King, he is the Master of 
France, the maker of France, and he is dying. Promise 
him ” 

“ Monsieur La Mothe, Monsieur La Mothe, is the 


42 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


King to wait all night, or shall I say Monsieur d’Argen- 
ton detains you?” 

“ Go, boy, go. Promise everything, everything — he 
is the King,” and as Commines pushed him through the 
doorway La Mothe could Ihear his breath coming in 
heavy gasps. 


CHAPTER V 


THE KING LAYS BARE HIS HEART 

If proof were needed of the King’s unique trust in 
his Grand Marshal it was to be found in the ease with 
his which Tristan conveyed La Mothe past the sentries 
who stood guard at every door. Not Commines, not 
Lessaix, not Beaujeu himself, for all that he was the 
King’s son-in-law, could have brought a stranger to the 
King’s presence without special licence. But to none 
Tristan gave greeting, much less vouchsafed expla- 
nation, and by none was he challenged. Nor did 
La Mothe speak. Not only had the suddenness of the 
unexpected summons confused him, but his thoughts 
were too deeply busied trying to remember how far he 
had allowed his tongue to outrun discretion. 

To say he was afraid would be too much, to say he 
had no fear would be too little, but his fear was less a 
dread than an awe. The gaiety of his laughter had 
clean gone from him, and his heart of song was hushed : 
even the crude, ironical satire of his uncomprehending 
youth was stayed. He had made grim jest of the 
justice of the King, and now the King’s justice, in its 
sternest, most sinister incarnation, rubbed shoulders 
with him. It was little wonder that his mood was 
sobered as his mind, instinctively swayed by Commines’ 
43 


44 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


almost frenzied insistence, groped its way step by step 
from Poitou to Valmy in a troubled endeavour to recall 
just what had passed between them when Tristan’s in- 
terruption pricked the bubble of his irony. 

And he succeeded in part. First there had been the 
coiner of Thouars, then the brawling drunkard of 
Tours, the thief of Valmy, the nettle-gatherer, and 
lastly Molembrais who held the King’s safe-conduct. 
Truly the meshes of the net of Justice were small when 
not even a twelve-year thief, a common quarreller in 
his cups, or the holder of the King’s safe-conduct could 
slip through. Perhaps it was as he spoke of this last 
the door had opened. It was then he had hoped he 
might be far from Valmy the day his passion of soul 
was stirred. It expressed his mood of the moment, but 
now he knew he had said more, much more, than he 
had meant, as youth so often does in its gay self- 
sufficiency, and the words as they stood — if Tristan 
had caught them — were no commendation to either 
favour or confidence. How could the King trust him 
when his foolish satire had so plainly hinted that he 
did not trust the King ? It would be unreasonable : 
faith begets faith. For an instant it flashed across his 
mind that he might explain away the words, but in the 
same instant he dismissed the thought. Explanation 
would never win belief from such a man as Tristan, 
nor could he bend his repugnance to such a familiarity. 

So in silence they crossed the courtyard where Les- 
lie’s Scottish archers lurked in every shadow, in silence 
passed the many guards grouped at the gateway to the 
King’s lodgings, in silence traversed the great square 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


45 


hall, gaunt and comfortless, but brighter than daylight 
from its many lamps — the King was afraid of gloom — 
and in silence mounted the stone stairway. At its 
head they turned along the right-hand corridor, enter- 
ing a silent ante-room with sentinels at its door; at a 
further door, masked by drawn curtains, the guard was 
doubled. Force, vigilance, suspicion, were the domi- 
nant notes of Valmy — in a sense they were Valmy 
itself. Midway across this ante-room Tristan paused 
and struck La Mothe lightly on the arm with a gesture 
that seemed part contempt. 

“ A word of advice, young man, from one who knows. 
Be frank, say little, answer promptly : do what the 
King bids you and be thankful.” 

“ Is that a threat ? ” La Mothe answered the tone of 
half-truculent command rather than the words. 

“A threat? No! The King and I do not threaten, 
we fulfil.” 

“ The King and you ? ” 

“I have said so, do you want it proved?” Drawing 
back the curtains very quietly Tristan stood a moment 
blocking the doorway before motioning to La Mothe to 
follow him. He knew his master, and wished to make 
certain that the stage picture was set before the audi- 
ence was admitted. 

The room was even more brilliantly lit than any they 
had passed through, and yet with such a skilful dis- 
tribution of the light that the further end was com- 
pletely shadowed. It was the effect of an artificial 
alcove. There, where the grey thickened, sat the King, 
or rather there he lay propped high upon a couch, 


46 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


pillows behind him and pillows at either side to support 
and comfort his weakness. A peaked, close-fitting cap 
of crimson silk, laced with gold embroidery, covered 
his head down to the very roots of the ears, while a 
long, wide-sleeved robe of the same colour, furred at 
the neck, and draped to give an appearance of breadth 
of chest, swathed him to the feet. So shadowed, and 
with a reflected glow flushing the thin face, it would 
have needed a shrewder suspicion than that of country- 
bred Stephen La Mothe to detect how low the flame of 
life burned in the frail vessel of clay. 

In front of the couch a low table, hardly higher than 
the couch itself, was placed within reach of the King’s 
hand : behind all — the draping, as it were, of the 
alcove — hung arras of blue cloth interwoven with 
golden fleurs-de-lis, a fitting and picturesque back- 
ground to the tableau. To the left were windows, fast 
shuttered, to the right a closed door. 

Drawing La Mothe to the front Tristan turned on 
his heel and re-entered the ante-room in silence, 
dropping the curtains behind him. There had been no 
formal announcement, no word spoken, but as the cur- 
tain fell the King stirred upon his pillows and La Mothe 
was conscious of a scrutiny which slowly swept him 
from head to foot. But the protection of the peaked 
cap was insufficient. Lifting his hand Louis shaded 
his eyes yet further, and leaning forward repeated the 
scrutiny; then he beckoned very gently and lay back 
upon the pillows. He was a judge of men, a crafty 
reader of the dumb truths told by eyes and mouth, or 
the faint, uncontrollable shifts of expression, and so far 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


47 


he was satisfied. Commines might be right or wrong, 
but at least this La Mothe was no assassin. Neverthe- 
less the door upon the right opened quietly so soon as 
La Mothe had passed beyond eyesight of it, opened 
wide enough for a cross-bow to cover him from the 
darkness of the passage without. Louis was not a man 
to run a needless risk, and the bolt which brought 
home the King’s justice to the nettle-gatherer would 
not miss Stephen La Mothe at thirty feet. 

“Nearer,” said a soft voice as La Mothe paused, 
uncertain how far that beckoning hand had called him, 
“nearer yet; there I that will do for the present. You 
are Stephen La Mothe, the friend of my dear and 
trusted friend, therefore my friend also, and the King 
has need of friends. No, no, say nothing, Philip said I 
could trust you as himself. That is a great deal for 
one man to say of another.” 

“Prove me, sire.” La Mothe spoke with an effort. 
The weary, caressing voice with its subtle note of 
pathos, the affectionate, frank admission of Commines’ 
worth, the half-veiled appeal with its confession of a 
personal need, had touched him deeply, stirring him as 
music has the power to stir, so that to command words 

was difficult. “ My uncle told me ” 

“ Uncle ? ” Louis’ suspicions sprang to life newborn. 
Goaded by their sting he leaned forward, one arm 
thrust out, and for the first time La Mothe saw the 
deathly pallor of his face. “ Uncle, do you say ? Com- 
mines never called you nephew ? ” 

“ Not in blood, sire : in love — service — gratitude.” 
“ Then it is better to have a nephew by name than a 


48 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


son by nature. Do you hear ? If you love your uncle 
pray with all your soul that he may never have a son 
to grudge him his life.^’ The thrust-out fingers, little 
more than bleached skin drawn tight over fleshless 
bones, were shaken in a convulsion of passion, from 
the sunken, dull eyes a sudden fire glared, and the thin 
lips shrank upon the uneven teeth. But in an instant 
the spasm passed and Louis sank back upon the pillows, 
breathing heavily and plucking at the tags of gold cord 
fastening his robe at the breast. “See what it is to 
have a son,” he said, but in so low a tone that La Mothe 
barely caught the words, nor were they spoken as if 
addressed to him, then with an effort which racked his 
strength the King roused himself. “ Love ! Service 
and gratitude ! Words ! empty words I Kings hear 
them daily and find them lies. Because of these in his 
mouth Guy de Molembrais was trusted as it may be 
Stephen La Mothe will be trusted, and Molembrais is 
dead — dead in a traitor’s grave. Words? It is deeds 
France has need of, deeds — deeds. And you, young 
sir, for whom my friend Philip vouched as for himself, 
are you more faithful than Molembrais ? ” 

“ God helping me, sire.” 

“ Um, um ; have you need of God’s help to be 
faithful?” 

“ I only meant ” 

“ There ! there ! obey orders and you will have help 
enough. You owe much to Monsieur de Commines ? ” 

“ Everything, sire.” 

“Everything? Sit there,” and Louis pointed to a 
low stool placed just beyond the transverse angle of 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


49 


the bench-like table which fronted the couch. “ Every- 
thing I Love I Service ! Gratitude I You are right ! 
Take these from life and there is not much left. And 
how will you repay the everything you owe ? ” 

“ Love for love ” 

“ Um ! A woman may have a word to say as to 
that! Well?” 

“ Service for service ” 

“You are not your own. France claims you; never 
forget a man’s first service is to his country. The 
nation is the mother of us all. Well, what next? Shall 
I tell you? Win his gratitude in return I Eh, Master 
Stephen, how would that please you ? Prove your love, 
show your service, earn his gratitude, and these you 
will do to the uttermost by serving the King and 
France.” 

“ Sire, sire,” cried La Mothe, shaken out of himself 
by the gust of healthy emotion which seized him as the 
King’s quiet voice grew in strength and fullness till it 
seemed to vibrate with as generous a passion as that 
which stirred the depths of the listener ; “ I am yours 
to use body and soul.” 

“Body and soul,” repeated Louis, his eyes fixed 
searchingly on La Mothe’s face. The lad’s prompt 
response promised well, all that was needed was to 
keep this enthusiasm of devotion keyed to the pitch of 
action. “ Body and soul I Be sure I shall not forget. 
But what you promise in hot blood you will forget 
when your mood cools. No ? Well, Molembrais’ mood 
cooled and he has been colder than his mood these three 
days past. But you are different, you are of stronger, 


50 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


finer, truer stuff, your love and service are for Corn- 
mines as well as for France, and so you will not forget. 
You understand? Monsieur de Commines vouches for 
you. Monsieur de Commines.” The King paused, 
and the nervous fretful fingers plucked at the breast of 
his robe afresh. He was utterly wearied and must have 
time to regain strength. “ Monsieur de Commines 
stands surety for you ; never forget that. Your faith- 
fulness is his faithfulness, your failure his failure : keep 

that always before you. To-morrow you will , but 

first tell me something of yourself.” With a moan of 
weakness he settled back into the pillows and his eyes 
closed. “ I must know Philip’s friend as Philip knows 
him,” said the soft voice. 

And again La Mothe was touched to the heart, touched 
in his pride for Commines, the King’s trusted friend, 
touched in his grateful sympathies that the King, weary 
and burdened by many anxieties, should find time and 
thought for so kind an interest in one so insignificant 
as himself, though that, too, was for Commines’ sake; 
touched above all with a generous self-reproach when 
he remembered his bitter satire on the King’s justice. 
He now saw that the severities which had horrified and 
repelled him were exigencies of State, repugnant to 
the gentle, kindly nature of the man in whose name 
the law took its course. 

And out of that grateful heart of youth he spoke 
frankly as Tristan had bidden him speak. Briefly, 
succinctly, he told of his childhood’s poverty, of the 
change which came later under Commines’ unfailing, 
affectionate liberality, of his placing him as a lad in the 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


51 


household of Monsieur de Perche, of the life in Poitou 
with its training in arms and simple teaching of Keep 
faith, Live clean, Follow the right and trust God un- 
afraid. It was a very simple story, but he told it well. 
No tale grows cold in the interest or halts for words 
when the heart is behind the telling. 

And through it all Louis lay among his cushions like 
one dead. Not an eyelid flickered, not a finger moved, 
his breath came so softly, so quietly that the red robe 
scarcely stirred beneath his sunken chin. Every mus- 
cle was relaxed in that restfulness which next to sleep 
is the surest restorer of exhausted vitality. But the 
brain, the most acute and cunning brain in France, 
was awake. With that dual consciousness which, even 
more than dissimulation, is the diplomatist’s prime 
necessity for success in the worsting of an adversary, 
he gathered and stored for use in his memory the sali- 
ent points from La Mothe’s story, while all the while, 
co-energetically, his mind was busy searching out how 
best to use this new tool for the cementing closer that 
fabric of France which was his pride and glory. France 
was at once the mother who gave his genius form and 
the son of his jealous love. And as he listened, plan- 
ning, sufficient strength crept back to the worn body. 
He could play out his part to the end, and La Mothe 
would carry with him no sense of his master’s frailty 
to paralyze action. In loyalty for loyalty’s sake Louis 
had no faith. 

‘‘ You need say no more,” he said, nodding his head 
with sympathetic interest. “ A debt — a debt indeed. 
And to-morrow you begin your repayment. To-morrow 


52 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


you go to Amboise with Monsieur de Commines. 
Amboise,” he repeated slowly, “ Amboise,” and paused. 

“ Where His Highness, the Dauphin ” 

“Where my son waits — and watches.” The thin 
hand crept up to the sunk lips, lingered there an in- 
stant, crept up to the dull eyes, passed across them 
once or twice with a motion eloquent of weary hope- 
lessness, and fell drearily to the lap. “ God keep us 
in His mercy,” said the King, and as his finger-tips 
made the four points of the cross upon his breast La 
Mothe felt he was upon holy ground. “ God keep us 
in His comfort. All is not well at Amboise, but my 
friend Philip knows — knows and feels for me. I have 
no orders to give. All is left to him. Only I say this, 
and never forget it, never — France comes first and 
obedience is the payment of your debt.” 


CHAPTER VI 


HOW LOUIS LOVED HIS SON 

La Mothe sat silent. His fear had passed away 
utterly, but in its place his awe had grown, an awe full 
of a deep pity. Youth is the true age of intolerance 
and for the simple reason that it is the age of ignorance. 
In its abundant strength, its sense of growth and devel- 
opment, its vigorous, unfailing elasticity, its blessed 
want of knowledge of the ills of life, its blindness to 
the inevitable coming of these ills, it is impatient of 
a caution it calls cowardice, or a frailty it neither 
understands in another nor anticipates for itself. But 
in the rare instances when it takes thought its sympa- 
thies are more generous than those of age, because the 
sorrows it sees are so much greater than any it has 
known, ever realized in itself or even conceived. So 
was it now with La Mothe. The pathetic, solitary fig- 
ure, feeble almost to helplessness, diseased, shrunken, 
dying, Commines had said, yet with a heart warm in 
friendliness and a thought for France alone, thrilled 
him to the very depths. And the dull eyes, watching 
him from under the heavy lids with an alert vigilance 
from which no shift of mood escaped, read his emotion 
unerringly. 

Again Louis leaned forward. But it was a changed 
63 


54 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


Louis. This time the light fell on a worn face fixed 
in a grey solemnity. The grave protesting voice, the 
outstretched hand driving home its indignant points, 
completed the spell. 

“No, all is not well at Amboise. They think the 
King grows old. Poor humanity must needs grow old, 
but they are impatient and would — anticipate age. I 
have a son, not yet thirteen — but of age to be king. 
Silence — silence, he is the Dauphin. It is not for 
you to blame — or condemn the Dauphin. Nor does 
the King’s justice condemn ignorantly. Plots, plots, 
plots ! Plots against the father, God and the father 
can forgive ; but plots against the King — plots against 
France : for these there is no forgiveness and youth is 
no excuse.” 

“ But, sire,” began La Mothe. Then he remembered 
the Valmy gibbet where a boy of twelve still hung that 
the roads of France might be safe, and his voice choked. 
The King was right ; youth was no excuse. 

“There are no buts,” said Louis, sternly emphatic, 
and sank back upon the pillows. “ I have knowledge, 
I have knowledge, Commines knows — others — France, 
Europe — must know later ; an honest lad like you will 
be believed.” 

“ Three weeks ago I was in Poitou ” 

“Yes, and so they will trust you; you are without 
prejudice, you are not of the Court.” 

“I meant, sire, I have no experience.” 

“ And so the nut may be too hard for your teeth ? I 
see no fault in your modesty : diffidence is not cow- 
ardice. But you will have help in your nut-cracking. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


55 


you will have three good friends in Amboise, Greed, 
Fear, and Love : with these three I have made France 
what she is. Money — a man — a woman ; what will 
these not do ! With the first — bribe and see that you 
do not hold my skin too cheap ; Fear — a life forfeit, 
if I lift a finger he hangs ; Love — a woman,” 

“ A friend, sire ? ” 

“An enemy — but a woman. Fool her : she is young 
and Amboise is dull. I have a scheme for you ready 
made. You sing? But I know you do, Tristan has 
told me. Nothing escapes him, nothing : and nothing 
is too small for the King’s service. Always remember 
life holds nothing trivial. Leave Valmy with Corn- 
mines, but separate on the road and go to Amboise as 
a wandering jongleur. They are dull and will wel- 
come any distraction. You make verses ? ” 

“ Sometimes, sire,” stammered La Mothe, very ill at 
ease, and flushing as youth will in the shame of its 
pride. It was almost as disconcerting as being found 
out in a lie. 

“Margaret of Scotland kissed Alain Chartier who 
made verses, and Amboise is dull. Queen or waiting- 
maid, women are all of one flesh under the skin, and to 
fool her should be easy. Remember,” added Louis 
hastily, “ I do not bid you do this or that: I only sug- 
gest, nothing more, nothing more. Monsieur de Corn- 
mines — your uncle — will give you your orders, and 
when — when ” — he paused, catching at the throat of 
his robe as if it choked the breath a little, swallowed 
with a gasp, then went on harshly — “when the end 
has come say nothing, but take horse and ride here for 


56 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


your life. Find me — me, without an instant’s delay 
and keep silence till you have found. Here is a ring 
that day or night will open every door in Valmy.” 

“ What end, sire ? ” 

“ What end ? What end ? Ask Commines, serve 
him, serve France ; that end, boy, that end, and in the 
name of Almighty God, ride fast.” The dull eyes took 
fire, and this time there was no need for the lying glow 
of the scarlet robe to make pretence of health ; so fierce 
a passion waked the blood even in the deathly cheeks. 
But it also had the defect of its quality, and Louis sank 
back breathless in exhaustion. “ No, no ! ” he whis- 
pered, the words whistling in his throat as he motioned 
imperiously to La Mothe to keep his seat. “ Call no 
one, it will pass — it is nothing, nothing at all — and I 
have one thing more to say.” 

Fumbling amongst the cushions he drew out a little 
silver figure, whether of man or woman La Mothe was 
uncertain, so fully the tense fingers clenched it. This 
he held up, palsied, before his face, bowed to it thrice, 
his lips moving soundlessly, then the hand slipped 
weakly to his knees, the grasp relaxed, and the image 
clattered on the fioor. It had served its purpose, out 
of the curious act of faith a renewal of strength was 
born and Louis was again King. But even then the 
words faltered. 

Shading his face with one hand he reached forward 
to the low bench. It was littered with the contents 
natural to such a surrounding in such a presence, papers, 
parchments, an ink-horn or two, a stand of goose quills, 
a tray of blotting-sand, with, nearer to the King’s hand, 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


57 


a lumped-up linen cloth with the four corners folded 
and twisted inwards. Amongst these the nervous 
hand shifted uncertainly here and there, almost like 
the fluttering of a bird, then came to rest upon the 
bunched folds of the napkin. 

“ The Dauphin is a child,” he said, his fingers closing 
upon the looseness of the linen as he spoke. “ A weak- 
ling — girl I And so, girl-like, he loves to play at 
make-believe. You know their games? There is the 
shell of a ruined house beyond the walls and he holds 
it against all-comers with a sword of lath, or carries it 
by assault at the head of his army of two stable-boys. 
Then he cries, ‘ I am Charlemagne ! I am Roland ! I 

am the Cid I I am ’ — anything but the Dauphin 

of France I ” 

“ But, sire,” ventured La Mothe, as the King paused, 
“ that is natural in a child.” 

“ I played no such games at twelve years old,” an- 
swered Louis bitterly. “At twelve I learned king’s- 
craft and foresaw realities ; at twelve I struggled to be 
a man in thought, never was I a girl-child in make- 
believe, but Charles — Charles sucks sugar and hugs 
his toys. But being a child we must treat him as a 

child, yes, yes, and so — and so ” The voice trailed 

into silence and the hand upon the linen shook as with 
a palsy. “You see,” the King went on hoarsely, “ what 
it is to be a father. The child is a child and must be 
treated as a child, and yet not encouraged in childish 
plays by the father, not outwardly — not outwardly. 
Else Commines, Beaujeu, and these others would say I 
fostered with my hand what I condemned with my 


58 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


head. No, the father’s hand must be hidden out of 
sight, and that will be your part.” 

With a quick jerk he flung the linen napkin on the 
floor, and, dropping the hand which had shaded his 
face, turned to La Mothe with what seemed a challenge 
in his eyes, almost a defiance : it was as if he said. Scoff 
if you dare I And yet in the little heap of interwoven, 
fine steel rings there was nothing to move either laugh- 
ter or contempt, and if the quaint velvet mask which 
lay beside the coat of mail was effeminate in the tinsel 
of its gold embroidery, it was at least no child’s toy to 
raise a sneer or gibe a moral. 

Laughter ? There was no thought of laughter. The 
warm heart of young blood is emotional once its crust 
of unthinking carelessness is pierced, and La Mothe was 
never nearer tears. More than that, the pathetic 
humanness of it all, the bitter cynical censure of the 
King, overborne and cast out by the abiding tenderness 
of the father, crushed by no logic of kingcraft, was that 
touch of nature which made him kin even to this stern 
and pitiless despot in spite of the repulsion wakened by 
the justice of the King. With these secret gifts of 
fatherhood before him he saw Louis in a new light, and 
the loyalty which had been a loyalty of cold duty took 
fire in that enthusiasm which is the devotion of the 
heart and counts life itself no sacrifice. Nor could he 
hide the new birth within him, and the dark lines of 
challenge were smoothed from the King’s face. 

“ A little slender coat such as the French Maid might 
have worn,” he said, lifting the woven links gently as 
if he loved them, and dropping them again in a little 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


59 


heap that caught the light on every separate ring and 
split it up into a hundred glittering points. “ It may 
have a message for him when he plays Roland or 
Charlemagne, and through it the spirit of the child may 
grow.” 

“ But surely all the world may know of such a gift 
as that ? Sire, sire, let me tell the whole truth ; give 
me leave to say this is from the father to the son, from 
the King who is to the King who shall be ” 

“ God’s name, boy, who bade you fill thrones with 
your King who shall be I Is this Commines’ work ? 
Does he think — does he think — that — that — Christ 
give me breath I ” And the hooked fingers caught 
roughly, fiercely, at his robe, tearing it open so that 
the lean neck with its tense sinewy cords was laid bare 
to the glare. “ Quick, quick, is it Commines — Com- 
mines — Commines ? ” he stammered, gasping. “ I took 
him from the gutter — from the very gutter; he was 
traitor to a Charles to serve Louis, and now is he a trai- 
tor to Louis to serve a Charles again ? ” Pushing him- 
self up, half kneeling on the couch, half leaning on the 
low bench, he stretched out a shaking, threatening hand 
towards La Mothe. “ Why don’t you speak, boy, why 
don’t you speak and tell the truth, you dumb dog ? ” 

But the passion was beyond his strength, his jaw 
dropped, he shivered as if with cold, and fell back upon 
the cushions, one hand feebly beckoning to La Mothe 
to come nearer. 

“Whisper,” he said, patting La Mothe’s arm fawn- 
ingly, a wry smile twitching his lips, but leaving the 
watchful eyes cold. “We are alone, we two. Who 


60 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


put that thought into your head ? Eh ? Come now ? 
Come now ? ” 

“No one, sire, on my honour, no one.” 

“ Honour ? I know too much of the ways of men to 
trust men’s honour. Swear, boy,” he burst out again, 
passionately roused. “ Swear on this. It is the Cross of 
Saint Lo, and remember, remember, whoso swears falsely 
dies, dies within the year — dies damned. Honour? 
Honour is a net with too wide a mesh to hold men’s 
oaths. Dare you swear ? ” 

Lifting the relic to his lips La Mothe kissed it rever- 
ently, while Louis, his lungs still fighting for breath, 
watched him narrowly. 

“ Sire, I meant nothing, nothing but ” 

“ But that you were a fool. Only a fool sells — the 
lion’s skin — while the lion — is alive.” His voice 
strengthened as if the thought stimulated him like a 
cordial. “ And the lion is alive — alive I I must 
finish, I must finish,” he went on more querulously. 
“Yes, a fool, but fools are commonly honest. You 
may be a faithful servant, but you are a bad courtier. 
Monsieur La Mothe.” 

“ But, sire, have you not more need of the one than 
of the other ? ” 

“ Of the servant than the courtier ? Aye, aye, that 
is well said, very well said. You are less a fool than I 
thought. But I must finish or Coictier, my doctor — he 
thinks me less strong than I am — will be scolding me. 
Take these,” and he pushed the coat of mail away from 
him impatiently, as if vexed that he had been betrayed 
into such a display of feeling, “Remember that I have 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


61 


never seen them, never, never. You promise me that ? 
You swear that?” 

“I swear it, sire, solemnly.” 

“ And you will return to Valmy — to me, in silence ? ” 

“ I promise, sire.” 

“ Swear, boy, swear.” 

“ I swear it, solemnly.” 

“ There I ” And again he pushed the mail from 
him, his delicate fingers touching the mask delicately. 
“ Give them from yourself. All things have their price, 
and the price of a child’s confidence is to serve its 
pleasures. But, young sir, remember this too, remem- 
ber it, I say, my son is the Dauphin of France and that 
which is for a prince’s use, even in play, is for his use 
only. Let no one else have commerce with these.” 

“ Be sure, sire, I reverence the prince too deeply ” 

“Aye, aye: you can go. Words cost even less 
than honour. Give me proofs, Stephen La Mothe, 
proofs, and trust to the justice of the King,” which 
shows how right Commines was when he said that 
the justice of the King had many sides. 

And so, with his deepest bow and his heart full of 
many emotions. La Mothe left his master’s presence, 
and the cross-bow in the shadows beyond the door on 
the right was lowered for the first time in more than 
half an hour. For what he was to trust the justice of 
the King he was no more clear in the confusion of the 
moment than what his mission to Amboise was. But 
of one thing he was certain, the King was a man much 
maligned and little understood : harsh of word and 
stern of act, perhaps, but with a great, undreamed 


62 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


wealth of tenderness behind the apparent austerity. 
Of that the little coat of mail and tinselled mask bore 
witness. It was wonderful, he told himself, how the 
yearnings of the human heart found excuse for what 
the sterner brain condemned ; surely that was where 
the human drew nearest to the divine ! This was not 
alone a master to serve, but a man to love ! 

And Louis, a huddled, shapeless mass on his tossed 
cushions, sat gnawing his finger-tips and staring with 
dull eyes into vacancy. All passion had died from 
him and suddenly he had grown very old, though the 
indomitable spirit knew no added touch of age. 

“My son,” he said, shivering, “my son, my son.” 
Then the bent shoulders straightened, the bowed head 
was raised, and into the tired eyes there shot a gleam 
of fire. “ I have no son but France ! ” Was he a 
hypocrite? Who can tell? But let the man who 
never deceived himself to another’s hurt cast the first 
stone at him. 

When the little troop of ten or a dozen rode from 
Valmy the next morning on their way to Amboise he 
was there upon the walls, a solitary grey figure pathetic 
in his utter loneliness. Nor, so long as they were in 
sight, did his eyes wander from them. 


CHAPTER VII 


FOUR-AND-TWENTY, WITH THE HEART OF EIGHTEEN 

Many, deep, and diverse are the springs of silence. 
If Commines asked no question when La Mothe re- 
turned from his interview with Louis, and made no 
comment beyond “ You are late, my son,” it was be- 
cause he knew that curiosity was almost as dangerous 
as opposition where the schemes or secrets of his master 
were concerned. La Mothe, in his ignorance, had on 
the other hand no such thought, no such fear, but a 
charge which he held sacred had been solemnly com- 
mitted to him: he shared a secret with the King and 
the first necessity was silence. Whatever Commines’ 
ultimate orders might be he understood now what his 
mission was, this mission to Amboise: it was to do for 
the father what the father might not do for himself, 
and as they rode slowly along the high road from 
Valmy he thought complacently to himself that he 
alone recognized the true nature of the man who 
watched them from the walls. 

But there were obvious limits to the silence if the 
line of procedure laid down by the King was to be fol- 
lowed. A parting and a meeting were to be arranged, 
a plan of campaign to be decided upon ; and it struck 
La Mothe as curious that the man who scoffed at make- 
63 


64 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


believe in a boy could yet seize upon make-believe for 
his own purposes. 

“ The King does not wish me to arrive at Amboise 
with you,” began La Mothe, and it is to his credit that 
he spoke with hesitation. To Commines, as Commines 
himself had said, he owed everything, and yet it seemed 
as if already he had come between Commines and the 
King’s confidence. And yet, just because he was in 
the King’s confidence it was not easy to keep a touch 
of importance out of his voice. It was as if he said, 
“ The King and I have decided so-and-so, and you are 
to stand aside.” But the bubble of his complacency 
was soon pricked. 

“At Chateau-Renaud you will stay behind after we 
have dined,” answered Commines, “nor will you leave 
the inn until three o’clock. You will then go on foot 
to Limeray, where you will cross the Eisse, and take 
the Tours road until west of Amboise. You are then 
to ford the Loire at Grand- Vouvray and enter Amboise 
from the south. Once in Amboise ask for the Chien 
Noir and put up there for the night.” 

“ So you know all about it,” said La Mothe, crest- 
fallen. Nor was it simply that Commines knew all 
about it, it seemed he knew much more than La Mothe 
himself. 

“ Except that at the Chien Noir you will find some 
one who can open the doors of the Chateau to you I 
know nothing, and I want to know nothing. There 
you are to obey orders, but to have your time to your- 
self ; and, my son, my son, pray God there may be no 
orders to give.” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


65 


“But the King told me nothing of all this last 
night.” 

“It is enough that he told me this morning,” an- 
swered Commines drily. “You need not look down- 
cast; it is his custom to divide his instructions.” 

But La Mothe had another objection, and one so 
obvious that he marvelled how it had escaped Corn- 
mines’ notice. 

“ One thing the King forgets. To enter Amboise as 
a stranger will be impossible. Riding behind us there 
are twelve good reasons why I should be recognized.” 

“Do you take us for fools?” retorted Commines. 
Turning in his saddle he pointed backwards. Valmy 
was still in sight, and a keen eye could have detected 
the meagre grey figure above the outlines of the grey 
walls. “ What is that to the right of the castle? ” 

“ Valmy gallows.” 

“ And from it hang three good reasons why the twelve 
will keep silence. The King’s grip is as sure in 
Amboise as it is in Valmy; it is over all France, and 
God have mercy on the man it closes upon in anger. 
Think twice, Stephen, before you say the King forgets 
— and then don’t say it.” 

La Mothe rode on in silence. This sudden reminder 
of the justice of the King had dashed his satisfaction. 
Wherever he turned it confronted him, and always with 
a warning which was less a warning than a threat. It 
had been so with Tristan, it was so now with Commines, 
nor could the memory of the coat of mail and em- 
broidered toy in his saddle-bags entirely quiet the 
uneasiness of the threat gendered. But, seeking relief. 


66 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


his thought cast back to Commines’ curt instruc- 
tions. 

“ Who is this fellow — for I suppose it is a man who 
is to meet me at the Chien Noir ?” 

“ Who is he ? Slime of the gutter, contemptible old 
age unashamed, human pitch whose very touch is a 
loathing, a repulsion, a defilement.” It seemed as if 
Commines was less afraid to speak his mind now that 
the walls of Valmy were out of hearing, for he went on 
bitterly : “ The King chooses his tools well, a foul tool 
for a foul use, and neither you nor I can come out of it 
with clean hands. His name ? The gallows-cheat has 
a dozen names and changes them as you would your 
coat. He is like a Paris rag-picker, and his basket of 
life is full of the garbage he has raked from the 
gutter.” 

“ And the woman ? ” 

“ The woman ! To hear you say the woman one 
would think there was but one in the world. The 
King told me of no woman.” 

“Then I am not likely to get drunk in Amboise, 
unless your rag-picker pours the wine. 

* Heigh ho ! Love is the sun, 

Love is the moon and the stars by night.* 

The scheme seems a foolish one to me. I can never play 
the part. But, Uncle, what do you say? Shall I 
make a good troubadour ? ” 

“ Sing while you may,” answered Commines, with a 
dry gravity behind the softening of his stern mouth, 
“ and remember that at Amboise you sing for a King’s 
pay.” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


67 


“And I would sing five songs for nothing but the 
pleasure of singing rather than one for a fee. What 
kind of a little lad is the Dauphin ? ” 

Commines made no reply, but rode on with knit 
brows. The question so lightly asked was one he had 
often weighed in his own mind nor found a clear 
answer. Rumour said of him — but under her breath, 
for to speak at all was dangerous — that he was shame- 
fully neglected, slow-witted, ill-taught, or, worse still, 
untaught, but, and here rumour whispered yet lower, 
that flashes of shrewdness broke the dull level of the 
undeveloped intellect when least expected. That he 
was small for his age he knew, that he was weakly, ill- 
formed, and awkward. These things were patent to 
the eye and common knowledge, but into the depths of 
the lad’s nature he had not ventured to probe lest 
Louis’ suspicious jealousy should be aroused. Now 
that he found himself between a father’s twilight and a 
son’s dawn, with “The king is dead, long live the 
king,” an imminent proclamation, he blamed himself 
for his cowardice as men always do who are wise after 
the event. With a little more certain knowledge his 
star might rise with the dawn, instead of, as he feared, 
setting with the twilight. 

“Eh?” he said, rousing himself as La Mothe re- 
peated the question. “ The Dauphin ? I know little 
of him. He has lived at Amboise, I at Valmy or 
Plessis with the King : it is long since the two have 
met. An ailing, obstinate, dull boy, they say, with no 
more wit than can be put in him with a spoon. If it 
were not that weak natures often turn vicious that 


68 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


they may be thought strong I would say the King’s 
fear of a plot was baseless.” 

“ But surely there is no plot — a son against a father : 
a father who loves him,” added La Mothe, remember- 
ing the contents of his saddle-bags. 

“ I wish the plot was as doubtful as the love ; we 
might then have stayed comfortably in Valmy,” an- 
swered Commines cynically, and La Mothe’s eyes 
twinkled as he thought how much better he had read 
the King in his single hour than Commines had in all 
his ten years of intimacy. “ The woman,” he went on, 
“must be Ursula de Vesc, and if so you can spend your 
hour or two’s walk from Chateau-Renaud to Amboise 
adding a verse to your love song.” 

“ Why not a new song all for herself I ” replied La 
Mothe, the twinkle broadening to a laugh, “or had I 
better wait till I see her? She would never forgive 
me if the adored dimple was in the right cheek instead 
of the left, or the sweet eyes of my song grey instead 
of blue. Which are they. Uncle ? ” 

“ I never knew the colour of any woman’s eyes but 
one,” answered Commines ; and La Mothe knew by the 
softened voice that he spoke of Suzanne. “And when 
a woman has taught you the colour of her eyes may you 
see that in them which will make black or blue or grey 
the one colour in the world for you. As to Ursula de 
Vesc, she detests me much as I detest that offscouring 
from the dregs of brazen Paris who will meet you at 
the Chien Noir. But there is Chateau-Renaud, where 
you will find something better for your age and more 
to your liking than women’s eyes.” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


69 


“ Dinner ! and I twenty-four ! ” 

“Eighteen, Stephen, eighteen, not a day older, and 
be thankful for the heart of a boy.” 

“ Why not be thankful for the heart of a girl ! ” 
retorted La Mothe. “Pray the Saints, as the King 
would say, that Ursula de Vesc is as pretty as her 
name.” 

Partly that his men might be free from the restraint 
of his presence, and partly because he did not wish to 
advertise his visit to Amboise more broadly than nec- 
essary, Commines ordered their meal to be served in a 
private room. It was to the front, with two small win- 
dows overlooking the roadway. These were open, and 
as the stamping of hoofs and jingling of bridle-chains 
came through them Commines bade La Mothe see who 
were without. 

“But do not show yourself. Between Valmy and 
Amboise every man is a friend or an enemy, with fewer 
friends the further Valmy is left behind.” 

“ A priest, with three of an escort,” said La Mothe, 
“ King’s men, I am sure. Some of your own have gone 
out to meet them. Shall I go down to make sure ? ” 

“No; go into that inner room, rather, for I hear feet 
upon the stairs. If you are to be a stranger in Amboise 
the fewer who see you at Chateau-Renaud the better. 
We cannot give a priest the Valmy gallows as a reason 
for silence.” 

As the inner door closed the outer opened, and a 
Franciscan entered, his robe strewn thickly with the 
dust from the highway. Commines recognized him at 
once; he was from Valmy, one of the many clerics the 


70 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


King’s strange religiosity gathered round him, and 
justly held by Louis in deep respect for the simplicity 
and saintliness of his life. In an age when the fires of 
scandal scorched the Church with such a flaming 
vehemence that the heat kindled round the throne of 
the Chief Bishop himself, Father John escaped without 
so much as the smell of burning on his garments. 
None could lay self-seeking to his charge, nor even the 
smallest of the many vices which in every order raised 
their heads, rampant and unashamed. It was charac- 
teristic of Louis that he should attach to himself men 
of such unselfish humility and austere pureness of life. 
God and the Saints would surely forgive a little chican- 
ery to one who lived in an atmosphere of other men’s 
holy lives. 

“ Father John ! ” and Commines caught the Fran- 
ciscan by the arm almost roughly, a sudden fear setting 
his pulses throbbing. “Has Saint-Pierre sent you? 
Is the King ill — is he — is he ? — you of all men know 
what we fear for him.” 

“ No, my son, no ; the King is as you left him, well, 
praise God ! and strong : it is he himself who has sent 
me after you. He said that such a mission as yours 
had great need of the blessing of God upon it.” 

“ And was that all his message ? ” 

“ That he committed France to your care. He spoke, 
no doubt, of the Dauphin, who is the hope of France.” 

“Yes,” answered Commines drily, “I do not doubt 
he spoke of the Dauphin. Now, Father, I fear you 
must dine in haste, for it is time we were on the road.” 

“ A crust in my hand to eat as we go is enough. It 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 71 

makes me so happy, Monsieur d’Argenton, to see the 
King at last taking thought for his son.” 

“ Yes,” repeated Commines, with the same dryness. 
“The Dauphin is indeed much in his thought. But 
though we are in haste there is no need you should die 
of starvation. France has need of you. Father John. 
There are plenty to play the devil’s game by living, do 
not you play it by dying before your time.” 

Twenty minutes later they were again on the road. 
La Mothe’s saddle-bags fastened on his led horse. He 
himself followed at the hour named by the King, but 
on foot, a knapsack strapped across his shoulders and 
on it a lute in open advertisement of his new trade. 
His sword was with his saddle-bags, but was no loss, so 
free from danger were the roads under the iron persua- 
sion of the justice of the King. Nor were travellers 
numerous. Only twice was he passed, once by a courier 
riding post to Valmy, and once by a lad, little more than 
a child in age, who thundered up from behind on a great 
raw-boned roan horse and disappeared ahead in a cloud 
of dust. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE BLACK DOG OF AMBOISE 

Blessed four-and-twenty. From the first breath of 
life until the last, even though by reason of strength 
there be four-score years, is there a more perfect age ? 
The restraints of the schoolboy are left behind, the tree 
of the knowledge of good and evil has scattered its fruit 
about the feet, all sweet, all fresh in their newness, all 
a delight, even, alas, the worst of them : that of the 
tree of life seems just within the reach, and the burdens 
of the world are as yet on other men’s backs. Even if 
the Porter’s Knot, which all must bear sooner or later, 
is already on the shoulder, the light heart of four-and- 
twenty is untroubled. It believes, in its optimism, that 
it will tumble the load of carks and cares into the first 
ditch, and live in freedom ever after ! 

To Stephen La Mothe’s four-and-twenty with the 
spirit of eighteen the world of that May day was God’s 
good world, and what better could it be than that I If 
a full-leaved cherry tree, its ripening clusters rosy red 
and waxen yellow against the dense greenery, fiung 
shade across the road he paused in his tramp, squared 
his shoulders, and drank a deep breath of the cooler 
air ; if the blazing sun sucked up a subtle, acrid smell 
from the hot dust stirred by his feet he snuffed it up 
72 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


73 


greedily and found it good to live. A hawk in the 
air, a thrush whistling from a hazel bush as only a 
thrush can whistle, the glorious yellow of a break of 
whin, all were a delight. 

“ Heigh ho ! Love is my life 1 

Live I in loving, and love I to live ! ” 

he sang, and broke into a whistle almost as blithe as 
the thrush itself that he might think more freely. 
Commines’ gibe had come back to him, and for pas- 
time he would make a verse of his love song, let Ursula 
de Vesc’s eyes be blue, grey, or black ! 

“ Live I in loving, and love I to live,” 

was a good line, a line Francois Villon himself could 
not have bettered, but how should the next line run? 

“ Heigho 1 Sweetest of strife 1 ” 

Strife I The word jarred the context, but where would 
he get a better? Wife? Rife? Worse I both worse I 
Sweetest of strife — of strife — strife, 

“ Winning the dearest that life can give 1 ” 

No ! that was not good, not good at all : Villon would 
have turned the rhyme better than that. But then 
Villon, wild rogue though he was, was a poet. The 
dearest life can give — the dearest ? What was the 
dearest life could give? As the question, idly asked, 
fastened on his mind his whistle sobered into silence, 
and he plodded on through the dust, seeing neither the 
sunshine nor the shade. 


74 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


France came first, the King had said, and then had 
made it clear that he was France. Was the King’s 
service the dearest thing life could give ? In times of 
peace, when the millstones and the hearts of men alike 
grind placidly, patriotism is a cold virtue, and even in 
the hot passion of war it is often the magnetism of the 
individual man — the personal leader — who wakens the 
enthusiasm of desperate courage rather than the cause 
in whose name men die. Roland, La Mothe told him- 
self, might have roused such an enthusiasm, or Coeur 
de Lion, or J oan of Arc, but never that fierce corpse of 
Valmy. And if the father was France, what was the 
son — the twelve-year boy so dreaded and so loved? 
Was he not France too? Did France plot against 
France? “All is not well at Amboise,” said the King. 
If that was true in the sense the father meant it, what 
then? Was this dull ailing boy a double parricide to 
his father’s knowledge ? 

That, by the law of association of ideas, called up 
a new thought, and a rush of warmth, which drew 
none of its heat from the sunshine, flushed La Mothe. 
What if the boy, dull and neglected though he was, 
hid such a love for the father as the father hid from 
the boy, and what if cunning Stephen La Mothe should 
find it out and make this torn France one in heart? 
And so, because however one follows the clues through 
this maze of life they always lead to love at the end. 
La Mothe broke into his song again : 

“ Heigh ho ! Love is my life, 

Live I in loving, and love I to live. 

Heigh ho I Sweetest of strife, 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


75 


Winning the dearest that life can give. 

Love, who denied me, 

Hast thou not tried me 

And now, plague take the verse, where is my rhyme 
for the end?” 

But a turn of the road brought him to Limeray 
with the stream of the Eisse flowing beyond. Another 
league and he would reach Amboise — Amboise, where 
the shuttles of fate, the man and the woman. Fear and 
Love as the King had called them, were waiting to 
weave into the warp and woof of life a pattern which 
would never fade ; Amboise, where an end was to come 
— he had forgotten to ask Commines what end — an 
end which in some obscure way was to serve Commines 
and serve France. “ If I lift a finger he hangs,” said 
the King. That, no doubt, was the human slime of 
the gutter who had roused Commines’ contempt, and 
yet who was his passport to the castle. A pretty pass- 
port, and one not much to his credit, thought La 
Mothe, and fell to wondering if Ursula de Vesc of the 
uncertain eyes would class them as birds of a feather — 
Ursula who found Amboise dull and was to kiss the 
poet as Margaret had kissed Alain Chartier. But 
Chartier had been asleep at the time, while La Mothe 
promised himself he would be very much awake, and 
then called himself slime of the gutter for the thought. 
This was not the chivalry and respect for all women he 
had learned in Poitou. Who was he that a woman, 
sweet and good he had no doubt, should kiss him 
because Amboise was dull, and if she did would she be 
sweet and good ? He pulled a wry face and shook him- 


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self angrily, the thought was like a bad taste in the 
mouth. 

At Grand- Vouvray he forded the Loire, with Am- 
boise sloping up from the river in full sight, the red 
roofs of its houses, huddled almost underneath the 
Chateau for protection, glowing yet more ruddily in 
the setting sun, and entered the town by the Tours 
gate as Commines had bidden him. Reared high above 
the town it at once awed and protected was the grey 
castle, towered and turreted like a fortress, and fortress 
it was, — fortress, palace, and prison in one. Round 
town and castle alike lay the river, holding them in 
its embrace like a guardian arm, and beyond stretched 
the rich fertility of the Orleannais. 

The Chien Noir was easily found. It seemed as 
well known in Amboise as Notre Dame in Paris, and 
from the warmth of his reception La Mothe guessed 
shrewdly that his coming was expected. Innkeepers 
were not prone to lavish welcomes on wandering min- 
strels who carried all their world’s gear on their back 
like any snail. For such light-hearted folk an open 
window at night was an easier method of payment 
than an open purse. 

“ A room and supper ? Both, monsieur, and of the 
best. For the first what do you say to this?” and 
the landlord threw open a door with a flourish of 
pride. “Not in the Chateau itself will you find a 
better. Two windows, as you see: bright by day 
and cool by night, with all the life of the town pass- 
ing up and down the road to keep you company if 
you are dull, and the castle gates in full view so that 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


77 


none can go in or out and you not know it. And for 
supper — I am my own cook and you may trust Jean 
Saxe. Give me twenty minutes, monsieur, twenty lit- 
tle minutes, and you’ll say blessed be the Black Dog 
of Amboise I ” 

“ And who are in the castle ? ” 

“Two or three units with a dozen of noughts to 
their tail to give them value; Monsieur de Corn- 
mines ” 

“ Monsieur de Commines ? Do you dare speak of 
Monsieur de Commines so insolently?” burst out La 
Mothe, too indignant in his loyal devotion to Com- 
mines to remember that a wandering singer ate the 
bread of sufferance and had no opinions. But the 
innkeeper took no offence, which again suggested that 
he had his own private opinion of the knapsack and 
the lute. 

“ Monsieur, I meant no harm,” he protested humhly. 
“I am Monsieur de Commines’ man — that is, the 
King’s man — to the death.” 

“ Well, let it pass. Who else are at the Chateau? ” 

“Mademoiselle de Vesc ” 

“ Does she come next in consequence ? Why not the 
Dauphin ? ” 

“ Oh I The Dauphin !” and Jean Saxe blew out his 
lips in contempt. “We who live in Amboise do not 
think great things of little Charles. To my mind little 
Charles is one of the noughts. But wait till you go to 
the Chateau and then you will understand for your- 
self.” 

“ And why should I go to the Chateau ? ” 


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THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“ Because they love music,” and the fellow grinned 
knowingly as he cocked a cunning eye at the exposed 
lute, “because there is another who loves music and 

can open the doors and will say There I do you 

hear him ? La, lilla, la ! La, la, lilla, la ! He always 
sings over the third bottle, and the King — God bless 
him — pays for all.” 

Opening the door to its widest Saxe stood aside lis- 
tening, his head on one side, his hand beckoning famil- 
iarly to La Mothe, as up the dark well of stairs there 
came the rise and fall of a man’s voice in a brisk chant. 
No words could be caught, but the air ran trippingly, 
and if the higher notes broke in a crack which told of 
age or misuse, or both together, the lower ran clear 
and full, and the tune ran on with a rollicking, careless 
swing which showed that, whoever might cavil, the 
singer had at least one appreciative hearer — himself I 

“ A wonderful man, wonderful,” whispered Saxe, his 
small eyes twinkling with appreciation, but whether at 
the music or because the King paid for all. La Mothe 
was uncertain. “ A poet of poets, a drinker of drink- 
ers, and a shrewd, bitter-tongued devil drunk or sober. 
Not that he grows drunk easily, not he ! and always he 
sings at his third bottle.” 

“ What is his name? ” 

“ Whatever he chooses, monsieur, and so long as the 
King pays what does a name matter? He serves the 
King as I do and — with great respect — as you do 
also. Did I ask your name when you said, ‘A room 
and supper ’ ? Not I ! ” 

“ I am called Stephen La Mothe.” 


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79 


“ As you please, monsieur, and I don’t doubt you will 
eat as good a supper by that name as by any other. 
Give me twenty minutes and you will say the Black 
Dog of Amboise is no cur.” 

Nor was Jean Saxe’s boast unjustified. La Mothe 
not only supped but ate, and with such satisfaction 
that in the peace of a healthy hunger crowned with as 
healthy a digestion — unappreciated blessings of four- 
and-twenty — he forgot alike King and Dauphin, Valmy 
and the Grey Gates of Amboise in the shadows across 
the road. 

But neither was allowed to remain forgotten. As he 
sat over the remains of his supper, tapping out a verse 
of his love song with his finger-tips on the table, the 
door from the common room of the inn was opened and 
a man entered whom La Mothe at once guessed to be 
one of his three good friends in Amboise. In one 
hand he carried a lighted candle, in the other a great 
horn cup. 

“ Thanks, Jean,” he said patronizingly, nodding 
towards the room he had left as he spoke. “Close 
the door behind me, my good fellow : both my hands 
are full.” Then raising the candle, he turned and 
scrutinized La Mothe with a curiosity as great as La 
Mothe’s own and much more frankly evident. 

And he was worth studying, as a rare specimen is 
studied in the difficulty of classification. If there 
were many such men in France La Mothe had never 
yet met one of them. He was under middle height, 
the jaunty, alert youthfulness of his slim figure, supple 
without great strength, contradicted by the grey which 


80 


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shot with silver the thin hair falling almost to his nar- 
row shoulders, and, as La Mothe searched him in the 
wavering, guttered candle-light, it flashed upon him 
that contradiction was the note of all his characteris- 
tics. The weak chin with the unkempt straggle of a 
beard gave the lie to a forehead magnificent in its 
abundant strength of mental power : the promise of 
the luminous, clear eyes was robbed of fulfilment by 
the loose mouth with the slime of the gutter and 
sensuality of the beast writ large upon its thick lips. 
From the thin peaked nose upwards it was the face 
of a son of the gods who knew his parentage and 
birthright; but downward that of a human swine 
who loved the foulness of the trough for the trough’s 
sake. A Poet of poets, said the eyes : Slime of the 
gutter and old age unashamed of its shame, retorted 
the mouth ; and both spoke truth. Evidently his scru- 
tiny satisfied him, for he heaved a sigh of contentment 
as he drew nearer to La Mothe. 

“ The image of what I was at your age,” he said, and 
again there was the note of contradiction. The voice 
was the sweet, full voice of a singer, but ruined at the 
first emotion into roughness by excess. Placing the 
candlestick on the table he lifted La Mothe’s wine 
bottle and smelt it with slow carefulness, applying it 
first to one nostril then to the other. “ Vintage ’63,” 
he said appreciatively, “ and that animal Saxe fobs me 
off with ’75.” 

“Then try my ’63,” said La Mothe, “and we shall 
see if Saxe has another bottle of the same.” 

Promptly the contents of the horn mug were flung 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


81 


with a splash into the open fireplace at La Mothe’s 
back. 

“ Just what I was at your age ! The same to a hair ! 
A gay companion generous of heart and purse. Yes,” 
he went on, half seating himself on the table-edge and 
sucking down the wine with slow appreciative gulps, 
“’63; I knew I could not be mistaken, though it is 
four years since I tasted it last. The palate. Monsieur 
La Mothe, is like nature and never forgets. For that 
reason we should never outrage either.” 

“ Four years ! ” repeated La Mothe with mock admi- 
ration, then remembering that this was a poet of poets 
and should know his Villon, he quoted, “ ‘ And where 
are the snows of Tester Year?’” 

The narrow shoulders broadened with a start, the 
bright eyes grew yet brighter, and a firmer set of the 
mouth gave the face that note of strength it so sorely 
needed. If it were not that he was already deep in his 
fourth bottle La Mothe would have said the wine had 
set his blood on fire, warming him with a fictitious 
energy, so sudden and so marked was the change. 

“ Ah ha I ” he said, setting down the horn mug as he 
leaned towards La Mothe, and this time the voice was 
as full and round as a woman’s. “ So you know your 
Villon, do you ? rascal that he was ! ” 

“ Was ? Is Villon dead ? ” 

“Dead ! No ! But his rascality is dead : dead but 
not forgotten ! Saints ! what a dear sweet life it gave 
him while it lived, that same rascality. ‘ Where are 
the snows of Tester Year ? ’ That is the cry of all the 
years after, say, four-or five-and-twenty.” He paused, 
o 


82 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


his bright keen eyes watching La Mothe with a wistful 
humour in them, half envious, half reminiscent. 
“ Four-and-twenty ! Up to that age it is. Oh, for next 
year’s suns ! Oh, for the flowers of a new spring’s 
plucking I and ever after, ‘ Where are the snows of 
Tester Year ? ’ I think,” he added, pursing his mouth 
reflectively, “ that what the priests call Hell is hot just 
because last year’s snows never come back.” 

“ Gone ! ” said La Mothe, falling into his humour, 
“ dead like Villon’s rascality, but as unforgotten. But 
are you sure Villon is alive ? ” 

“Monsieur,” and the little man slipped from the 
table-edge to his feet and bowed, his eyes twinkling 
with an intense enjoyment, “I can vouch for him as 
you can for Stephen La Mothe : I have the honour to 
present to you Francois Villon, Master of Arts of Paris 
and of all the crafts of this wicked world.” 


CHAPTER IX 


FRANCOIS VILLON, POET ANTD GALLOWS-CHEAT 

La Mothe stared up at him incredulously. “ You 
Francois Villon?” he began; “Francois Villon the — 
the ” 

The gallows-cheat, the human pitch whose very 
touch is defilement was what was in his mind, but 
with those clear luminous eyes looking down un- 
ashamed into his own he could not put the brutal 
thought into the naked brutality of words. But 
Villon read something of his meaning in his eyes and 
rounded off the sentence for him. 

“The King’s Jackal I ” he said, not without a sour 
resentment. 

“ N^cessit^ faict gens mesprendre : 

Et fain sallir le loup des boys ! 

You don’t believe it? But you have been dandled 
on the knees of respectability all your little life: what 
do you know of necessity or hunger ? I know both, 
and I tell you necessity and hunger are two gods before 
whom all who meet them bow down. Better a live 
jackal than a dead poet. Besides, is he not the greatest 
of kings? Bishop Thibault had me in gaol for a mere 
slip of the fingers and talked of a judicial noose — the 
83 


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THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


third I’ve looked through — but the King fetched me 
out — God save the King ! ” 

“ God save the King I ” echoed La Mothe, for want 
of something better to say. His mind was still con- 
fused by this sudden upheaval of his ideals. All that 
was best in Villon’s poetry had stirred his enthusiasm, 
while all the much which was worst had left his sane 
wholesomeness untainted. To the half-dreamer, half- 
downright, practical lad in jPoitou, Villon, with his 
jovial, bitter humour and even flow of human verse, 
had been something of an idol, and when our idols crash 
into ruin the thunder of the catastrophe bewilders judg- 
ment. But there was more than bewilderment, there 
was an inevitable disgust. The frankness of this dis- 
gust Villon discovered. 

“ Besides, again, my very young friend,” he went on, 
“ what are you in Amboise at all for, you and your 
lute? Is Villon the only King’s Jackal here in the 
Chien Noir ? Do we not hunt in a couple, and have you 
as good an excuse for your hunting as poor Francois 
Villon, who looked through a halter, and found the 
eternity beyond unpoetical to a man of imagination? 
What brought you to Amboise, I say ? ” 

“ The King’s orders : the peace of France,” began 
La Mothe, but though the words were fine swelling 
words in the mouth they somehow failed to fill the 
stomach of his sense. Nor did Villon let him finish. 

“And I say the same. What is more, I say them 
openly, and do not drown the words with the twanging 
of a lute. Not that I blame you — not I, 

* Toute beste garde sa pel,’ 


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85 


or, as a greater poet than Francois Villon has said, 
Skin for skin, all that a man hath will he give for his 
life. Whose hide you guard, your own or another’s, 
I don’t know and don’t care. Mine was that of bare 
life, and there you sit and look disgust at me as if to 
cling fast to this good gift of God which comes to a 
man but once were a sin. And what are you doing in 
Amboise? No!” he interrupted himself hastily, em- 
phasizing the negative with a rapid gesture of both 
hands, “don’t tell me. If there is one thing more 
dangerous than knowing too little it is knowing too 
much. Tell me, rather, what you want me to do for 
you and tell me nothing more.” 

“ Gain me a footing in the Chateau.” 

“ I can open the doors, but the footing you must gain 
and hold for yourself. I warn you Amboise is well 
guarded. Oh I not with pikes, cross-bows, and such- 
like useless things in which our beloved King puts his 
faith, but by eyes that see and hearts that love, and so 
Amboise is a hard nut to crack. But your teeth are 
strong, and if the good God had made no peach stones 
there would be no peaches, and, my faith ! peaches are 
worth the eating.” 

He drew a long breath and sat silent, the horn mug, 
which he had again filled and emptied, tilted against 
his thigh. A smile flickered his loose mouth, and the 
full bright eyes, turned toward the vacancy of the 
empty fireplace, were sparkling with reminiscences. 

And who should have reminiscences if not Francois 
Villon ? There was not such another judge of peaches 
in all France, no such authority upon their eating, and 


86 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


few who had broken more teeth over their stones. The 
smile broadened into a soft chuckle, laughter deepened 
into puckers the many wrinkles of his crow-footed tem- 
ples, and he wagged his grey head in the warm appreci- 
ation of a happy memory. Dipping a finger-tip into a 
pool of spilt wine he wrote on the table reflectively, and 
as La Mothe watched his leering face he understood 
Commines’ outspoken contempt of this old man un- 
ashamed of his shamefulness. 

“Peaches,” he said, scratching his chin with a wet 
forefinger ; “my faith I yes ! I have climbed walls for 
them, robbed gardens of them, found them in market 
baskets — the gutter even. What matters where they 
come from so long as the cheek is warm, the bloom fresh, 
the skin smooth, and the sweetness full in the mouth. 
And where are they now ? Aye ! aye ! ‘ Where are 

the snows of Yester Year?’ My young friend, my 
very young friend, you have but one hfe, and when 
you drop it behind you see that only the husks of its 
possibilities are left ; crush the grapes while you may 
and drink the wine.” 

“ I thought,” said La Mothe, “ that the rascality of 
Francois Villon was dead? Leave it in its grave, if 
you please. It is decenter buried out of sight and 
does not interest me. How am I to gain entrance to 
Amboise ? ” 

Villon turned to him with an elaborate appearance 
of carelessness, but the unctuous complacency was 
wiped from his face, and the narrow eyes and mouth 
showed how deep was his anger at La Mothe’s dis- 
gusted contempt. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


87 


“How, but as my friend, pupil, and prot4g4,” he 
replied, with evident enjoyment of the other’s dis- 
comfiture at the unwelcome association. Then with 
incredible swiftness his mood changed. The raillery 
passed from his voice and he went on bitterly, “Do 
you think I love my life? Perhaps I do — at times. 
But not always, no, not always. You see that fly 
there on the table? Watch it now. It tastes the spilt 
wine, the ragout with its spices, the salad with its oil 
and its vinegar, everything within reach which tickles 
its palate ; then it rubs its stupid head with its fore- 
legs and trots back to the wine again. Presently” — 
and Villon suited the action to the word — “a great 
hand turns an empty tumbler over it and there it is : 
all the delights of the world it has lost clear within 
sight, but out of reach — always out of reach. That, 
my young friend, is what is called Hell. Do you blame 
the fly because it remembers the wine and spice of life ? 
Perhaps if the great hand is merciful it draws the 
glass to one side, thus, and still to one side, thus and 
thus and thus, until, phit ! there is a little red patch 
and no fly : yes, perhaps. Aye, aye, I have seen life. 
But it is better for the fly to laugh as it runs round 
and round under the glass than to sulk and cry its 
heart out for the snows of Tester Year. God save the 
King I ” 

The abrupt change of thought and the sudden end 
seemed to La Mothe so irrelevant that he sat in silent 
bewilderment, but in an instant comprehension came 
and a sense of compassion, almost of respect, shot 
through the disgust. 


88 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“ Perhaps the hand will lift the glass,” he said, “ and 
let the fly back to its spilt wine and spices ? ” 

Villon eyed La Mothe sourly. “Will that give me 
back my twenty years ? Bah ! the palate is as stale as 
the spilt wine, and when the good of life is gone life 
itself may go. There is Saxe knocking at the door. 
My faith I but you have indeed scared him into dis- 
cretion; he never knocks for me. Perhaps he has 
brought that second bottle.” 

But Saxe was empty-handed, and by the light of 
the candle La Mothe could see a quizzical grin upon 
his face. 

“ Monsieur,” he began, but which of the two he ad- 
dressed was uncertain, “they are dull at the Chateau.” 

“And have sent for Francois Villon to make sport ! 
I have dropped the ‘ de,’ Monsieur La Mothe, there are 
so many rascals amongst the nobility nowadays that I 
find it more distinguished to be the simple commoner. 
Dull at the Chateau ! Good Lord ! don’t I know it I ” 
He paused, lifting his head with a quick, bird-like 
motion : a cunning smile wrinkled his face and he 
smote the table with his open hand. “ Dull, are they ? 
There, my hedge-minstrel from Valmy, is your welcome 
ready made. Bring your lute and make pretty Ursula’s 
grey eyes dance to a love song, prude that she is.” 

“To-night?” said La Mothe doubtfully. “Surely 
not to-night : the Dauphin might resent a stranger’s 
coming so late.” 

“ The Dauphin ? Phit I Little Charles is pretty 
Ursula’s echo and nothing more. Come, let us go.” 

“ Then Mademoiselle de Vesc may object.” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


89 


“Mademoiselle de Vesc? So you know her name, 
do you? And what girl objects to a love song? I 
never yet knew one who did, and Francois Villon has 
lived his life. If they pout and turn aside don’t be- 
lieve them : it’s just that you may not see how the 
heart beats. Black eyes, blue, grey, hazel, brown ; 
Fat Meg and Lean Joan, wrinkled fifty and smooth 
sixteen, their eyes have all the same sparkle, the same 
dear light in them when the heart melts. I should 
know, for I have made love to every colour under the 
sun. Except Albino,” he added reflectively and with 
the conscientious air of one who desires to tell the 
whole truth. “ I wonder what it would be like to make 
love to an Albino. But now I shall never know, the 
fly must run round and round its glass until the day 
of the red blotch. It is a mercy I tasted the oil and 
vinegar in time. That disgusts you, does it? My 
young friend, you must learn not to say more with 
your face than you do with your tongue if you are to 
keep your secrets and the King’s. Come, I talk too 
much and they are waiting for us.” 

But Stephen La Mothe left his lute behind him. He 
had accepted the part allotted to him half as a jest and 
half for the sake of the adventure it promised, but 
Villon had put a less pleasant gloss on this open-faced 
masquerade, nor had the blunt question. Why are you 
in Amboise? been easy of answer. Or rather, the 
answer was easy, but one he did not relish in its naked 
truth. If to be the secret almoner of the King’s love 
for the Dauphin had been the sole reply to the ques- 
tion, his scruples would have been as light as his love 


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THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


song. But that answer was insufficient : there was a 
second answer, an answer which Commines knew and 
these two men, Villon and Saxe, suspected, one which 
would leave a soiling on clean hands, yet which must 
be faced. 

He found himself in the position of a circus-rider 
who, with one foot on the white horse — which was 
Honour — and the other on the piebald — which was 
duty and a King’s instructions, — has lost control of 
their heads and feels his unhappy legs drawn wider and 
wider apart with every stride. And in the emergency 
La Mothe did exactly what the circus-rider would have 
done — he clung to both with every desperate sinew on 
the strain. To keep his piebald still under him he 
went with Villon to the Chateau, and that he might 
not part utterly from his white he left his lying lute 
behind him. But he was not happy : mental and spirit- 
ual unhappiness is the peculiar gift of compromise. 

Nor did Villon make any protest at his decision. 
“ As you will, it is between you and the King,” he said, 
with all the indifference of the beast whose one thought 
is for his own skin, and then immediately proved that 
he was less indifferent than he seemed. “But if I 
knew which of the two you wish to win over, the boy 
or the woman, I might help you.” 

“The boy,” answered La Mothe, remembering the 
gifts of a father’s love which lay in the saddle-bags 
Commines had brought for him to the Chateau. Ursula 
de Vesc was but a means to an end, the Dauphin was 
the end itself. 

“ The boy? ” Villon paused as they crossed the road 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


91 


in the sweet coolness of the young night, and rubbed 
his chin thoughtfully. “ That’s not so easy. W omen, 
of course, I know like my ten fingers, but children are 
too subtle for me. And little lathy Charles with his 
long, narrow white face and obstinate chin, is no A B C 
of a boy. You must know something more than your 
horn-book before you understand him. To-day he re- 
ceived Monsieur de Commines with all the gravity of 
the Pope : ‘ Where is Monsieur Tristan, Tristan of the 
House of Great Nails?’ he asked, peering about him 
with those dull, tired eyes of his which see so much 
more than most men imagine. ‘Tristan?’ says Mon- 
sieur de Commines, very sourly for so great a man, 
‘ Tristan does not travel with me. Monseigneur. ’ ‘ He 

must be somewhere near,’ says little Charles, ‘ since you 
come from my father, do you not? and you are both 
friends of his.’ It was a sharp thrust and it was not 
the Dauphin who looked the fool. Now, was that more 
or less than the impishness that’s in all boys, prince or 
gutter rat? More, I say. No, children are too subtle 
for me : give me women for simplicity ! But I may 
help you with him all the same.” 

Though a king dwelt in Valmy and a king’s son in 
Amboise, never was there a greater contrast than be- 
tween the watchfulness exercised for their safety. At 
Valmy guards had thronged at every turn, more vigi- 
lant than pickets who hold the lives of a sleeping army 
in their keeping, but at Amboise the doors swung open 
to the touch of almost the first comer, though it was 
not easy to be certain how much of this laxity was due 
to the guarantee of Villon’s presence. A careless porter 


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THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


kept the outer gate, a single sentinel, lounging in the 
guard-room, let them pass into the central court un- 
challenged, and the servant or two they met upon the 
stairs gave them no more than a heedless glance. That, 
at least, was La Mothe’s first impressions. But when 
he saw the same face in the lower hall, again at the 
stair-head, yet again in the ante-room, and recognized 
that the plainly dressed serving-man had kept them 
under observation at every turn, unobtrusively but of 
evident purpose, he decided that a casual stranger 
could not have penetrated to the heart of Amboise with- 
out first giving a good account of himself. The watcher 
was Hugues, the Dauphin’s valet. And yet when 
Villon gently drew aside a curtain masking a doorway 
which opened upon the stair-head, there was no one in 
attendance to announce them. It was as if the King 
said, more significantly, more emphatically than in any 
words, “ My son may be the Dauphin, but I alone am 
France.” 

“There are the boy and the woman,” said Villon 
softly, “ Charles and Ursula de Vesc. Now, had I been 
your age I would rather have won the woman.” 


CHAPTER X 

LOVE, THE ENEMY 

Charles was seated on a low stool at the further 
end of the room, a pale-faced boy with dull, peevish 
eyes closely set together, the long Valois nose, and a 
thin, obstinate mouth. His dress was severely, obsti- 
nately, contemptuously plain. Again it was as if the 
King said. This is not the greatness or the glory of 
France ! But love and care had redeemed the derisive 
parsimony. All the lad wore was exquisitely neat and 
the very severity lent the little figure a dignity of its 
own. 

Beside him, but a little behind, stood Love, the 
Enemy, Ursula de Vesc, a slim figure in white. One 
arm was flung over his shoulder, the hand holding the 
boy’s hand as he raised it across his breast, and she 
seemed to draw him back to her so that he half leaned, 
half lay against her knee. Her other hand was caught 
up against her side below the rounded breast, and 
pressed there so tensely that the slender, bloodless 
fingers lay ivory-white against the hardly purer white 
of the bodice. The whole attitude was one of spon- 
taneous, natural, womanly affection, but as Stephen La 
Mothe looked a second time he seemed to find in it both 
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THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


defence and defiance, or if not defiance, then that vigi- 
lant watchfulness which is almost an antagonism. The 
clasping arm spoke protection, but a protection which 
said, “Touch if you dare.” 

Nor did the expression of her face change his 
thought. The clear grey eyes were alert with some- 
thing more than a girl’s fresh interest, the firm mouth, 
even while the lips moved, was set in an unconscious 
strain, and across the broad forehead two lines were 
shadowed where no lines ought to have been. If the 
face of age, when the sorrows and experience of years 
have written anxiety for the uncertain morrow across 
it, moves the heart by the story it tells, how much more 
the face of youth lined by cares which merciful Time 
should still have held unrevealed? There are more 
valleys of shadows than that of death, and it seemed 
to La Mothe that the gloom of some one of them had 
gathered thickly round Ursula de Vesc. 

Of the three or four others grouped at the further 
end of the room Commines was the only familiar figure, 
and though all turned at the noise of the brass rings 
jangling on their rod as Villon drew the curtain there 
was no recognition in his eyes. It was the opening of 
the lying masquerade, and La Mothe vaguely felt the 
white horse stumble as it swerved from the straight 
course. The soiling of clean hands spoken of by 
Commines on the road to Chateau-Renaud had begun. 

“ Gain the girl and win the boy,” whispered Villon 
as, with his hand upon La Mothe’s arm, they walked 
up the room together, then aloud, “ Monseigneur and 
Mademoiselle ” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


95 


“ Monseigneur, if you please,” interrupted the girl, 
but though she spoke to Villon her eyes were on La 
Mothe. The voice was cold, the words at once a self- 
effacement and a rebuke. It was as if she said, “ I 
know my place : know — and keep — yours.” 

“ Monseigneur,” went on Villon, quite unruffled, 
“ with the ills of life come their cure : Amboise was 
dull and I present to you Monsieur Stephen La Mothe.” 

The Dauphin made no immediate answer, but glanced 
up at Ursula de Vesc with a question in his eyes, and 
his clasp on her hand tightened, drawing her yet closer 
to him. It was the action of a child to its mother rather 
than that of a boy of twelve to a girl not twice his age, 
and to those who understood it was curiously instruc- 
tive. Looking down upon him she smiled and nodded, 
nor did the gracious softening of the tender face escape 
La Mothe. Her eyes were grey, and surely grey eyes 
were the sweetest in all the world ? 

“ Monsieur La Mothe,” repeated Charles, as if the 
girl’s look had given him courage to speak. “ Mon- 
sieur La Mothe of — Valmy ?” 

“ Monsieur La Mothe of everywhere,” replied Villon 
hastily, before La Mothe had time to answer. “ Singers 
and poets are of all the world. They say it took seven 
cities to give Homer birth.” 

“ And Monsieur La Mothe is another Homer?” said 
the girl, and Stephen winced at the insolent curve of 
her lips. He was quite sure they were never meant 
for such a curve, surely a Cupid’s bow would be more 
natural than contempt, disdain, and a few other injuri- 
ous opinions all in the one expression. In this belief 


96 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


he hastened to reply, allowing no time for Villon to 
intervene. 

“ No, mademoiselle, I am neither a singer nor a poet, 
at least not such a one as Monsieur Villon.” 

“ I hope not, for your credit’s sake,” answered the 
girl drily, nor did she seek to keep the scorn from her 
voice. “ As both singer and poet Monsieur Francois 
Villon is beyond his age.” 

“There is no such critic as the one who fails to 
understand,” said Villon, his wrinkled face white with 
anger, “ and I see I was right at first, and should have 
said Mademoiselle and Monseigneur, not Monseigneur 
and Mademoiselle.” 

“ Master Villon, you are impertinent,” broke in Corn- 
mines, who loved Ursula de Vesc little, but hated Villon 
more. 

“ Monsieur de Commines, if it were not another im- 
pertinence I would say that like breeds like,” retorted 
Villon, entirely unabashed. He returned Commines’ 
dislike with energy, and so long as he served the King 
he had little to fear from the King’s minister. 

“Poets are privileged,” said Mademoiselle de Vesc. 
“ And Monsieur Villon has paid me a compliment : I 
neither understand his poetry nor desire to.” Her 
tone was still contemptuous and had in it no thanks 
to Philip de Commines for his reproof on her behalf. 
She resented it, rather, since she had no desire to owe 
him either gratitude or thanks. 

For a moment there was a pause, a moment which 
seemed the prelude to a sarcastic outbreak from one or 
other of those she had wilfully irritated in that intoler- 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


97 


ance which so often goes hand in hand with a spirit of 
self-sacrifice. But Stephen La Mothe interposed. 

“ Mademoiselle, may I have the honour of being pre- 
sented to Monseigneur?” 

“ You ? ” she said, the lines deepening across her fore- 
head. “ A roadside singer presented to the Dauphin ! 
Surely you forget yourself — and him ? ” 

“Even a roadside singer may be a loyal son of 
France,” he retorted, looking her full in the face. He 
keenly resented the false position into which the King’s 
ill-considered scheme had thrust him, but he had gone 
too far to retreat. “You know best, mademoiselle, 
whether the Dauphin has need of a man’s honest love 
and devotion.” 

“ Devotion that is here to-day, was God knows where 
yesterday, and will be God knows where to-morrow ! 
Merci I the Dauphin is indeed grateful.” 

“ Spitfire ! ” murmured Villon, but so cautiously that 
only La Mothe heard him. “ Certainly I should have 
said Mademoiselle and Monseigneur. Or better still 
have left the Monseigneur out altogether. You do not 
go the right way. Win the girl, I tell you, and the boy 
will follow like a sheep.” 

“ Let me win her my own way,” answered La Mothe, 
which has always been the man’s desire since Adam 
was in Eden with the one woman in all the world. 
Then he went on aloud, “ Pour your scorn on it as you 
will, mademoiselle, it is devotion that will wait pa- 
tiently in Amboise until it has proved itself.” 

“ That will wait patiently in Amboise ? ” she repeated. 
Her eyes challenged his as she spoke, and in them there 


98 


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was nothing of the light the sons of Adam have loved 
to see in a woman’s eyes so that they might dwell 
together in Paradise. 

“ Why not ? And if a poor gentleman desires to see 
France in this fashion is there any reason against it ? ” 

“A poor gentleman, but not a poor minstrel?” 

“ As both I can but give my best. May I have the 
honour, mademoiselle ? ” 

Her clasp upon the boy’s hand must have tightened, 
for again he raised his face to hers as she stooped over 
him, speaking softly. This time it was he who nodded. 

“ You know best,” he whispered back, and the words 
would have given La Mothe food for thought had he 
heard them. “ As you say, it will be safer to have him 
before our eyes than behind our backs. We may be 
quite sure that Hugues will watch him. Yes, I agree : 
at least he is prettier to look at than that beast of a 
Villon.” 

From her side, where she held it pressed, her left 
hand slipped down across the Dauphin’s shoulder until 
it too drew him towards her, but when she raised her 
head the lines were smoothed from the forehead, and 
if the grey eyes were still watchful, they watched 
through a smile. 

“Monseigneur permits it,” she said. “Monsei- 
gneur, I have the honour to present to you Monsieur 
Stephen La Mothe.” 

“Monsieur La Mothe of where?” asked the boy 
gravely. 

“ Of Landless, in the Duchy of Lackeverything,” 
replied La Mothe, bowing with an equal gravity, and 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


99 


at the adroit parrying of a difficult question the smile 
crept down from Ursula de Vesc’s eyes until it loos- 
ened the hard lines of the mouth, and bent them to 
that Cupid’s bow La Mothe so much desired to see. 
“I have many fellow-subjects, Monseigneur.” 

“Another name for that duchy is Amboise,” said 
Charles, “and so, monsieur, it is my wish that you 
make the castle your home for as long as it pleases you.” 

He spoke with such a settled seriousness that it was 
difficult to be sure whether he understood the jest and 
played up to it in that spirit of make-believe which 
had drawn down the King’s anger or answered out 
of a dull uncomprehension. Nor did La Mothe care 
which it was. His heart leaped within him at the 
double promise opened up of fulfilling the King’s mis- 
sion at his ease and watching the unbending of the 
curved bow, but he answered with an equal gravity. 

“ Then Landless is not Houseless, Monseigneur, and 
to devotion gratitude is added.” 

“Discretion and good appetite give a man a longer 
life than either,” said Villon. 

“ But remember,” and Commines spoke to La Mothe 
for the first time, “ the King has first claim upon both.” 

“On discretion and good appetite?” said Villon 
gravely. “ I fear. Monsieur d’Argenton, His Majesty 
in his present health has more need of the second than 
the first.” 

“ Take your ribald impertinences elsewhere, but 
beware how you attempt them upon me elsewhere,” an- 
swered Commines, with a stern contempt. “ Here Mon- 
seigneur and mademoiselle’s presence protect you.” 


100 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“But if I took them elsewhere, even to Paris — 
and, heavens ! how I wish I could — Amboise would 
be duller than ever,” protested Villon, then added, 
with a significance of tone which gave the careless 
words a weight, “let us hope that Monseigneur and 
mademoiselle can protect each other as well as me.” 

Again there was a dangerous silence, and this time 
it was Ursula de Vesc who turned aside the threaten- 
ing storm. 

“Monsieur La Mothe is to cure our dullness. Tell 
us a story, monsieur, if you will neither sing nor play. 
We love a story, do we not, Charles?” 

“A story?” repeated La Mothe slowly. The chance 
suggestion, more than half malicious, had given him an 
unexpected opening, and he was turning in his mind 
how best to use it. “Why, yes, I think I might. 
Once upon a time ” 

“Wait a moment,” said Charles. “Here, Ursula,” 
and he rose from his stool as he spoke, “you sit down 
and I will sit at your feet and lean against your knee. 
There ! That is better. Now we are both comfortable. 
What is the story about, monsieur?” 

“It is an eastern tale. Monseigneur.” 

“I like the east better than the west, don’t you, 
Ursula?” and he looked up in the girl’s face with a 
laugh, then at Commines in a way which lent the words 
point and meaning. Valmy, La Mothe remembered, lay 
towards the west. “ Now, monsieur, we are ready.” 

“ There was once a king of the Genie who dwelt in a 
certain part of Arabia. He was a very great and a 
very wise king, the greatest and wisest his kingdom 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


101 


had known for many centuries. During his reign he 
had added province to province ” 

“At whose expense?” broke in Villon. “In love 
and the building of kingdoms there is always a giving 
and a taking.” 

“ Silence ! ” cried Charles sharply. “ If you interrupt 
again I will have you removed, even though you are 
who you are. Now, monsieur, go on, please.” 

“He added province to province,” continued La 
Mothe, “ until in all that part of Arabia there was no 
such kingdom for greatness or for power, and no king 
so feared by the kings of the surrounding countries. 
But though his affairs were so prosperous he had one 
bitter grief which was never absent from his thoughts: 
he was estranged from his only son, whom he loved 
with all a father’s love.” 

“Yes,” said Charles gravely, “ I see this is really an 
eastern story : a kind of a fairy tale, is it not. Monsieur 
La Mothe ? A tale one wishes were true, but knows is 
all make-believe.” 

“ All fairy tales have a heart of truth,” answered La 
Mothe, “ and this is a very true one. Monseigneur, as I 
hope you will believe before I have ended. In all his 
cares of state, and with so great a kingdom his cares 
were very many, there was no such care, no such sor- 
row, as this longing, unsatisfied love of the father’s 
heart. Day and night his one thought was how he 
might win for his old age the love which his boy ” 

“ Ursula, I am tired,” and Charles rose with a yawn. 
“Monsieur La Follette, will you please call Hugues, 
and I will go to bed ? If we are duller to-morrow than 


102 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


we are to-day we will hear the rest of the story, but I 
don’t think I like it very much. Even fairy tales 
should sound probable. Good night, Monsieur 
d’Argenton, good night. Monsieur La Follette, good 
night. Monsieur La Mothe,” and with a bow which 
contrived to omit Villon from its scope the Dauphin 
left the room, followed by Ursula de Vesc. But at the 
door she paused a moment. 

“ A room will be made ready for you in the Chateau, 
Monsieur La Mothe, and perhaps to-morrow you will 
tell me the end of your story ? ” 

“Dull?” said Villon, stretching himself with vigor- 
ous ostentation. “ My faith, yes ! If you are wise, 
friend La Mothe, you will finish the night with me at 
the Chien Noir. It is not often you can rub shoulders 
with genius familiarly.” 

But Commines already had a hand on La Mothe’s arm. 

“Genius?” he said, sternly contemptuous. “Yes! 
Genius depraved and degraded: genius crapulous and 
drunken. Take advice. Monsieur La Mothe, and bide 
indoors: the foulest soiling of God’s earth is a foul old 
age unashamed of its disgrace. ” Then lowering his voice 
to a whisper, he added, “ Come to my room when all is 
quiet, son Stephen. Look out for the cross of shadow 
and take care that the de Vesc girl does not see you.” 

The de Vesc girl! Stephen La Mothe was almost 
as offended by the curtly supercilious description of 
Mademoiselle Ursula as Villon was at the bitter judg- 
ment so uncompromisingly passed upon him. That 
may have been because Cupid’s bow had shot its bolt, 
and love’s new wounds are almost as supersensitive as 
a poet’s vanity. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE CROSS IN THE DARKNESS 

Two or three adroit questions addressed to the 
servant who showed him to his sleeping-quarters gave 
La Mothe a sufficient clue to the whereabouts of 
Commines’ lodgings. That they were in the same 
block of buildings as his own, and on the same level, 
made it comparatively easy to find them. But the 
Chateau must first settle into sleep, and he had an hour 
or two to wait before he could safely go in search of 
them unobserved. In the angry mood which swayed 
him the delay was fortunate. For the first time in his 
life his temper was exasperated against the man to 
whom he owed everything, nor did the sight of his 
knapsack and lute, sent from the Chien Noir, lessen the 
irritation. Few things feed the flame of a man’s anger 
as do his own faults, and in every string of the un- 
lucky toy — for it was little more — he saw a sharp re- 
minder of his own false pretence to flick the soreness 
left by Commines. 

What right had Commines to speak of Mademoiselle 
de Vesc as this de Vesc girl, as if she was some lumpish 
wench of the kitchen instead of a sweet and gracious 
woman, gentle and tender as a woman should be, and 
yet full of a splendid courage? Yes, and La Mothe 
103 


104 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


strode up and down the room to give his indignation 
ease by the exercise of his muscles ; that was Ursula de 
Vesc, tender, gentle, loving : but wise in her tender- 
ness, strong in her gentleness, and utterly without fear 
in her love. From which it will be seen that the 
Cupid’s bow had sent its shaft very deep indeed, and 
Commines by his contemptuous phrase had but driven 
it more surely home. 

There be those who say love dethrones reason, but 
observe with what admirable logic, what cogency of 
deduction Stephen La Mothe could argue upon Corn- 
mines’ incapacity for judgment — thus. He had mis- 
judged Ursula de Vesc, why not also Villon? If there 
had been this undeserved prejudice against an innocent 
and helpless girl, was not his contempt for Villon equally 
unjustified ? How, in fact, could such a man as Philip 
de Commines, Commines, the mere man of the world 
and of the world’s affairs, understand or appreciate 
Villon the poet, Villon who had lifted the whole litera- 
ture and poetry of France to the highest level it had 
yet reached? It was preposterous, ridiculous, unthink- 
able, the one as great a blunder as the other. So 
Stephen La Mothe gilded his gold, painting his lily 
lover-fashion time out of mind, and whitewashed into 
a pleasant greyness all the ugly smirchings with which 
Villon had so cheerfully daubed himself. 

With the door drawn behind him La Mothe found 
the outer passage intensely dark. Its only illumination 
came from the narrow lancet windows through which 
the moonlight streamed so whitely that the rest of the 
gallery was yet blacker and more hidden by the con- 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


105 


trast. Beyond, at the end, was a deeper pool of dark- 
ness which he knew was the arched entrance to the 
main body of the Chateau, his own lodgings being in 
a projecting wing bounded on the one side by a wide 
court. A few steps beyond this archway a narrow 
corridor cut the passageway, opening up three lanes 
of shadow. These were lit to a bare visibility by as 
many tiny lamps hung from the vaulted ceilings, mere 
specks of points of light too small to flicker, and such 
as all night long hang before the high altar of a church, 
symbols of changeless faith burning unquenched even 
in the deepest darkness of the night of the world. 

Turning to the left, his hand upon the wall for guid- 
ance, La Mothe crept softly on until a further passage 
opened to his right. Down this he stole, breathing 
uneasily as men do who walk warily in the dark, 
intent to keep their presence secret. From the roof 
depended the same inadequate light, but at the fur- 
ther end was a hazy blur which marked the head of 
the stairs, and across the floor luminous shadows drifted 
here and there from under doorways where the lamp 
still burned within the chamber. One of these cham- 
bers La Mothe knew was allotted to Commines, and as 
he scanned the flagged floor of the passage, searching 
for the sign Commines had given him, a shadow amongst 
the shadows stirred his curiosity, and he stole nearer on 
tiptoe : it was a mattress laid before a closed door, and 
stretched upon it lay a man wrapped in a blanket. 

Holding his breath. La Mothe paused, listening in- 
tently. Though he had resented Commines’ brusque 
reference to Mademoiselle de Vesc, the wisdom of cau- 


106 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


tion was obvious, and he knew the value of secrecy too 
well to venture an unnecessary risk. But the figure 
neither moved nor changed its regular deep breathing, 
and La Mothe slipped past noiselessly, seeking anew 
for the promised signal. And midway to the well of 
the stairs, where faint murmurings told of sleepless 
life even in ill-lit, ill-guarded Amboise, he found it — 
a nebulous dusky cross, broader than long, stretching 
its shadowy arms upon the flags, and at his first low 
tap on the panel the door was softly opened and as 
softly closed behind him. 

“ Are you sure no one saw you ? ” 

“No one. But, Uncle, this playing at thief in the 
night is intolerable. It will be very much better to 
say quite plainly to Mademoiselle de Vesc ” 

“ Stephen, Stephen ! ” and as he spoke Commines, 
who had been stooping over his signal, a tiny paper 
cross pinned against the foot of the door so that it 
blocked the flow of light from the lamp laid on the 
floor behind, lifted himself and laid his hand strongly 
on La Mothe’s shoulder. “ Do you know why you are 
in Amboise at all ? Do you know it is to convict this 
very Ursula de Vesc of complicity in a plot to murder 
the King and place the Dauphin on the throne, and 
that the King believes the Dauphin is privy to the 
scheme? And do you know what part you are to 
play ? ” 

Commines spoke in the anxious remonstrance of 
affection rather than in anger. There was no censure 
in the tone, no reproof, a pleading rather : but when 
the irritation of offence is raw it resents expostulation 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 107 

and rebuke alike : they are just so much salt to the 
wound. So was it now with La Mothe. 

“ It is we who conspire,” he answered angrily, “ we 
who call ourselves men and yet creep about a sleeping 
house to meet by stealth in the dark. And against 
whom ? Against a weak girl, a weak, defenceless girl 
whose one offence is that her love is loyal to a boy as 
helpless as herself. A brave conspiracy truly, brave, 
worthy, and honourable ! You saw her to-night, how 
she faced us for his sake, unafraid and yet very sorely 
afraid because she is so womanly through her courage. 
A girl and a half -grown boy ! And we call ourselves 
men.” 

“Why do you say ‘we’ ? Me she knows and Villon 
she knows, but not you.” 

“ Some day she will, my hope is some day she will : 
pray God I be not ashamed to look her in the face 
when that day comes.” 

“Stephen, Stephen, what has changed you? Have 
you grown mad or is this that drunkenness ? ” 

“I don’t know, I only know it is something new. 
And if it is that drunkenness as you call it, then may 
I never be sober again my life long.” 

“ Listen,” and this time Commines’ voice was stern 
to harshness. The time for pleading, or even remon- 
strance, had gone by. A more vigorous schooling was 
needed if Stephen La Mothe was to be saved from folly. 
“ If you must go girl-drunken as every sentimental boy 
does sooner or later, do not go blind-drunk or sense- 
drunk, but keep your eyes open and your mind clear. 
Mademoiselle de Vesc may be blameless or she may 


108 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


not : that is what we are here to prove. You call her 
weak, but the greatest folly of a foolish man is to de- 
spise weakness. Contempt of weakness has lost more 
battles than strength of arms has won. Charles the 
Bold despised the weakness of the Swiss, and the de- 
votion of the weak Swiss crushed him. Weak, you 
say? Love is never weak. Fifty years ago a weak 
girl saved France because of her great love for France, 
and to-day another just as weak might ruin France 
through another great love. Never despise the power 
of love nor call it weak even in the weakest. If 
faith [can remove mountains, love is greater than faith, 
and of mademoiselle’s devotion to the Dauphin I have 
no doubt.” 

“Who has the better claim upon it?” answered La 
Mothe sullenly. 

“Granted, but that is not the point. And what if 
the devotion is misdirected? It is a quality of love 
that it only sees the lights in the jewels and not the 
flaws. If love saw all the flaws in us it would hardly 
be love. What if Mademoiselle de Vesc, seeing the 
boy neglected — and I grant the neglect, — seeing him 
unhappy — and I grant the unhappiness, — seeing him 
denied his high position — and I grant the denial while 
I assert that the King, who is a wise king, must have 
wise reasons I do not understand ; what if Mademoiselle 
de Vesc, I say, seeing all these things and understand- 
ing the reasons for them as little as I do, seeing no 
deeper than her devotion and knowing nothing of the 
King’s wise reasons, were moved by this same devotion 
to some desperate effort which would right this wrong 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


109 


at any cost ? Supposing that were so, what would hold 
her back? Fear? She is no coward, and there is no 
such courage on God’s earth as the courage of a loving 
woman. Weakness? Love is strong as death and 
stronger, for love builds up where death can only de- 
stroy. The crime ? In her eyes the crime lies in the 
unhappiness and neglect of Amboise, and to right the 
wrong by any means, however desperate, would be no 
offence before God or man. What would hold her 
back? I ask you. Nothing, nothing at all.” 

“ Granted,” said La Mothe, impressed in spite of him- 
self and falling back upon the last resort of baffled ar- 
gument. “It is all very plausible, but I do not believe 
it all the same.” 

“Because you are drunken,” retorted Commines, “and 
because, too, there are none so blind as those who will 
not see. But supposing I am right, is not the King 
justified, and are not we, the King’s servants, justified 
too ? And is the Dauphin such a fool as to be blind to 
this devotion, he who has known so little love in his 
life? Stephen, if the King is right and Mademoiselle 
de Vesc’s love has overcome both fear and weakness, 
he is right, too, when he links Charles with her in her 
abominable plot.” 

“But why has he sent ” La Mothe broke off 

lamely, remembering in time that he had no right to 
say to Commines, Why has he sent such a message of a 
father’s love as lies in those saddle-bags I see in the 
corner? Very naturally Commines misunderstood the 
interrupted sentence. 

“Why has he sent you to Amboise?” 


CHAPTER XII 

LA MOTHE BELIEVES, BUT IS NOT CONVINCED 

But having ended the sentence Commines broke off 
at the end as La Mothe had done in the middle, and 
with much the same embarrassment. His face, harsh 
and stern of feature both by nature and schooling, grew 
almost tender as he turned aside troubled. To speak 
plainly to any man of honour and generous spirit, an- 
swering his own question in direct words, would have 
been difficult, but how much greater the difficulty when 
the man was brother to that dear dead woman who had 
sunk to her sleep comforted by his promise of care and 
protection? “Watch over him, Philip, for my sake.” 
But into the memory of the tired voice he had loved 
there clashed the King’s harsh question so curtly asked 
in Valmy, and torn by the conflict of the two natures 
warring within him Commines paced the room in silence. 
La Mothe was not the only man in Amboise who found 
his skill as a circus-rider tried to the utmost, and like 
La Mothe Commines temporized. 

“ Who are we to judge the King ? ” He spoke harshly, 
even aggressively, and as if combating some undevel- 
oped argument of La Mothe’s. A burst of temper may 
110 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


111 


not convince a man’s own conscience, or quiet its 
uneasiness, but it silences its voice for a time as 
declamation can always silence pleading. “Who are 
we to question his justice or deny its right to strike ? 
And it is as his arm of justice that you are here in 
Amboise.” 

“ I ? ” And into La Mothe’s mind, as he stood silent 
after the startled ejaculation, there flooded significant, 
misunderstood hints dropped by the King in Valmy, 
and by Commines himself on the road to Chateau- 
Renaud, hints which had seemed to him meaningless 
in the memory of the little coat of mail which was the 
secret gift of a father’s love. “I, the King’s arm of 
justice ? In God’s name how can that be ? ” 

“ The days of Brutus have gone by,” answered Com- 
mines, never ceasing from his restless pacing of the 
room. The motion eased the tension of his nervous 
distress and made speech less formal, less difficult. 
“Treason is treason wherever found. You know its 
punishment, but the days of Brutus are gone. The 
justice of the King, the justice of the father, can no 

longer — no longer ” But even his restless pacing 

could not give him power to clothe the grim thought 
in blunt words, and Commines was silent. 

La Mothe’s scornful indignation had no such reti- 
cence, nor had he yet learned how to cloak the ugliness 
of a naked truth in the pleasant euphemisms of diplo- 
macy. With frank brutality he completed Commines’ 
broken sentence. 

“ The father can no longer murder the son and call 
it justice. But, monsieur,” and it was significant that 


112 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


the adoptive relationship was unceremoniously swept 
aside, “ what has the father’s murder of the son to do 
with me ? ” 

“Treason is treason,” repeated Commines, finding 
some comfort and strength in the bald platitude : it 
was incontrovertible and at least gave him firm ground 
under his feet. “ Nor can treason go unpunished, or 
how would the throne be safe for a day? But what 
the father cannot do, though a king, another can and 
must ; and must,” he reiterated, steeling himself with 
a rising emphasis for what was to follow. “ And you 
have been chosen as the King’s arm in Amboise.” 

This time there was no outburst of scorn or indig- 
nation. It was not that the crisis was too deep for 
noisy declamation, though human nature differs from 
organic in that it commonly meets its most grave 
crises in quietness. The truth was, simply, that La 
Mothe did not grasp the full meaning of the words. 

“ The King’s arm in Amboise ? ” he said uncompre- 
hendingly. “ The King’s arm ? What does that 
mean ? ” Then, by the very repetition of the phrase, 
enlightenment dawned in part and he shrank back, his 
fingers closing in upon his palms. “Not that! For 
God’s sake. Monsieur de Commines, say it is not that I 

Not that the father Oh ! it cannot be, it cannot. 

Is it — is it murder ? ” 

“Justice,” replied Commines doggedly through his 
shut teeth. “Let us call things by their proper 
names. I say justice, justice of ” 

“Hell!” broke in La Mothe fiercely. “Justice is 
sacred to God Almighty, and this — this Where 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


113 


is God’s hand? Where is — ? Oh, no, no, it is dam- 
nable, damnable ! ” 

“Justice,” repeated Commines, quoting Louis. “Not 
even the son of a king is above or beyond justice.” 

“Vicarious murder!” retorted La Mothe. “No 
smooth sophism can make it less. He would have 
another commit an iniquity he dare not commit him- 
self. And I am the arm of the King in Amboise? 
Never! God helping me. I am to obey you. Mon- 
sieur de Commines ; these were the King’s orders ; but 
not in this, never in this, never, so help me God ! ” 
“Listen, Stephen.” Commines had fuller command 
of himself now and spoke more quickly, but also with 
more assumption of authority. “ Put yourself in the 
King’s place and consider the truth dispassionately.” 

“ Consider dispassionately how a father can best kill 
his own son ; yes. Uncle ? ” 

But Commines took no umbrage at the crude sar- 
casm, a sarcasm aimed at himself and the King alike. 
He understood it as a sign that La Mothe’s mind was 
recovering from the shock which had swung its balance 
awry. Five minutes earlier he would have declared 
that murder could never be dispassionate. That he 
would listen at all was something gained. 

“The King is both more and less than father,” 
Commines went on; “that is to say, his responsibili- 
ties are greater than those of a simple citizen, and his 
private rights in his son are less. He and the Dauphin 
do not belong to themselves. France comes first. Do 
you admit that France comes first ? ” 

“ God knows ! ” replied La Mothe moodily. The 


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THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


dying out of his first hot passionate protest had left 
him fretful and desperate. He remembered, too, some- 
thing the King had said about France being the mother 
of them all, and at the time he had agreed ; nor could 
he quite see where Commines’ argument might lead. 
“ There was a time when I thought right was eternally 
right, but now it seems a father may wipe out his 
fatherhood in blood and be justified.” 

“ France comes first,” went on Commines, emphasiz- 
ing the point which he saw had weight. “ The millions 
of lives in France come first. Could a son who plots 
against his father’s life reign in France ? ” 

“He is a child.” 

“ In a year he will be old enough to reign : answer 
me, could such a son reign ? ” 

“ Are there not prisons ? ” 

“ You do not answer my question. I ask again, could 
such a son reign ? ” 

“ I am answering it in my own way, and I repeat, 
there are prisons.” 

“And would there not be conspiracies? Would 
France not be torn asunder in civil war? Would the 
blood of France not flow like water? Be sensible, 
Stephen ; am I not right ? ” 

“ I will never be the King’s arm in Amboise, never, 
never. I would sooner ride back to Valmy and face 
the justice of the King. The justice of the King ! ” 
scoffed La Mothe, to ease his troubled soul. “ And in 
any case I shall return to Valmy; my word is passed.” 

Again Commines let the sarcasm levelled at the 
King’s justice pass unchallenged: it is never wise to 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 115 

block a safety-valve when a high pressure, whether of 
steam or of passion, is blowing itself off. 

“These things being granted,” he went on, “what 
course is the King to follow? Is he to pardon the 
crime against the nation ? for that is what it is ; is he 
to pass it over in silence and leave the criminal free to 
weave a second and perhaps successful conspiracy? 
The King dare not : for the nation’s sake he dare not. 
What then? Is he to arrest and try the prince by 
solemn course of law? I doubt if the Dauphin of 
France is not above the common law of France, but 
apart from that again the King dare not. France 
would be rent from end to end, and her enemies, Eng- 
land, Spain, Burgundy, would swoop upon her and lay 
her waste, as in the days before the coming of The 
Maid. I say again, the King dare not. What course 
is left? Nothing but the arm of justice, that justice 
which is Almighty God’s, striking in secret, and so 
France is saved.” 

He ended, but La Mothe returned no answer. Not 
that he was convinced, no, not by a hairbreadth. But 
the sophism, and he knew it to be a sophism, was too 
subtle for him, and his safest refuge was silence. And 
yet his inability to tear the sophism to tatters was not 
the sole cause of the silence. Commines’ last question. 
What is left? though a mere flourish of rhetoric, had 
stirred another possible reply. Reconcilement was left, 
the union of father and son in love was left. Inexora- 
ble logic as voiced by Commines, if it was logic at all 
and not a sophism, might coerce the King to a terrible 
justice, but would the father’s love not welcome the 


116 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


reconcilement of a son’s penitence as a way of escape 
from the ultimate horror of the logic? And surely 
that love must be a very tender, very yearning, very 
forgiving love when even in the midst of just anger it 
could bend to such gentle thoughts as lay hidden in 
those gifts through the hand of a stranger. Surely, 
surely, surely. And so La Mothe kept silence. 

“ There may be no plot ; there is no plot,” he said at 
last, though in the face of Commines’ assertion he had 
little hope he was right ; then he added, “ and what of 
Mademoiselle de Vesc?” 

“The greater includes the less,” replied Commines 
shortly. 

“ What do you mean by that ? ” 

“ If the King may not spare his son can he spare the 
girl ? ” 

“ There is no plot,” repeated La Mothe, more emphat- 
ically than before, “and I shall remain in Amboise.” 
Crossing the room he knelt beside his saddle-bags, 
opening and taking from them the package wrapped 
in a linen napkin which contained the King’s gifts to 
the Dauphin. “ I suppose I must live upon my knap- 
sack for the present, but this I shall take with me. Is 
there anything more to be said ? ” 

“Not for the present.” 

“Then good night.” 

The passage was plunged in the same quiet and as 
deep a gloom as when he had traversed it an hour 
before, and La Mothe plumed himself on regaining his 
room unseen. But had he paused and turned at the 
first angle he would have seen the shadow which lay 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


117 


Stretched in the deeper shadows of the doorway stir 
itself, and Hugues’ white face, a blur upon the dark- 
ness, watching him. Beyond that door slept the Dau- 
phin, and Villon was right when he said that the guards 
of Amboise were not pikes or cross-bows, but eyes that 
saw and hearts that loved. 


CHAPTER XIII 


“FRIEND IS MORE THAN FAMILY” 

With his overnight’s irritation still unallayed, and 
more than ever convinced that the prejudice which 
could so misread Mademoiselle de Vesc must also 
wrong Francois Villon, La Mothe was early at the 
Chien Noir. Of the Amboise household he had seen 
nothing, which means that he had looked in vain for 
Ursula of the Cupid’s bow, and his temper was not 
thereby improved. But he had the day before him, 
and he promised himself some recompense for his dis- 
appointment before it was many hours old. Mean- 
while, he would show Villon that all who came from 
Valmy were not sharers in Commines’ harsh judgment. 
He found the poet contemplative over the remains of 
his breakfast, but in a mood as captious as his own. 

“ Have you found already that the inn has a warmer 
welcome than the Chateau ? I tell you this, my young 
friend, it will cost you less to live here than there, 
though in either case it is the King who pays.” 

“ To every man his wages,” answered La Mothe, but 
Villon shook his head. His knowledge of the paying 
of wages, or at least of the earning of them, gave the 
chance phrase a sinister meaning. 

“ As to that, we all look for more than our dues in 
118 


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119 


this world and less in that to come. God’s mercy keep 
us from justice I If our wages were paid in full where 
would we be ? What is little Charles doing ? ” 
“Sleeping, I suppose.” 

“And Mademoiselle de Vesc?” 

“ How should I know I ” answered La Mothe crossly. 
It vexed him that Villon should speak at all of Ursula 
de Vesc, and still more that his answer was so lame. 
But recognizing the symptoms out of a wide experi- 
ence, Villon only laughed softly at the brusque retort. 

“ Some peaches hang themselves high,” he said, the 
laugh broadening as La Mothe’s face grew wrathful, 
“but they are peaches all the same. Shake the tree, 
my young friend, shake the tree, and see that you keep 
your mouth open when the fruit drops.” 

“ Monsieur Villon, if we are to be friends ” 

“So young, so very young,” said Villon softly. 
“ Friends? most certainly. If we are not friends, who 
should be? Are we not both jackals hunting in the 
one pack, and jackal does not bite jackal.” Then his 
mood changed with a swiftness which La Mothe soon 
found to be characteristic, a kindliness cast out the 
jarring banter from his face, and his luminous eyes 
grew wistful. “ Friends ? It is a good word, the very 
best word in the world. Friends are more than family 
or kinship, and not many care to call old Francois Villon 

friend nowadays. There was a time ” He paused, 

running his hand down the long trail of his beard re- 
flectively, a slender-fingered supple hand. La Mothe 
noted it was, a hand that had a distinct character of its 
own, just as the contradictory face had, though the 


120 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


finger-tips were less sensitive than in the days when 
their itching acquisitiveness had brought their owner 
to the cold shadows of the gallows. “ Aye I there was 
a time. There were four of us ” 

“ The ballad says six,” said La Mothe. 

“ Four, four : a man — yet, more, a woman — may 
have many lovers but few friends, many to tuck an 
arm in his or throw it across his neck when the pockets 
are full. But that’s not friendship, and I don’t call 
every man friend who dips his fingers into the same 
till with me. Yes, there were four of us, Montigny, 
Tabary, Cayeux, poor snows of yester year sucked down 
by the cold earth. But while the blood was warm in 
our veins we four were as one with one purse. When 
it was full we laughed and sang and feasted as no king 
feasts, because no king has such spice of appetite nor 
can snap his fingers at the world and care as we could : 
when it was empty, and it was mostly empty, we laughed 
and sang the louder and shared our crusts or went gaily 
hungry. Brave lads every one, and brave days. Aye, 
aye.” 

“And where are they now? ” 

“ With the snows of yester year I God knows where ! 
and I fear me the devil knows too. Montigny was 
hung in ’57, Tabary in ’58, and Cayeux, Cayeux of the 
light heart and lighter fingers, went by the same path 
two years later : I only am left. They said I killed 
a man and would have hung me — me I Francois 
Villon I Certainly a man died or there would be no 
Villon now: it was either he or I, and they would 
have hung me.” The full lips parted in a comfortable 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


121 


laugh and the eyes twinkled. “ I appealed to Parlia- 
ment in a ballad, and the humour of the notion moved 
the good gentlemen to mercy. ‘ How can we choke 
the breath from so sweet a singer ? ’ said they. ‘There 
are ten thousand hangable rogues in Paris, but only 
one poet amongst them ! ’ God be praised for humour. 
I think it gave Francois Villon his life ; but since then 
friendship has walked the other side of the street.” 

“And yet,” La Mothe laid his hand on the elder 
man’s shoulder, letting it lie there in kindliness, “ you 
who so gibe at your best self are the Francois Villon 
of the ballad to Mary the Mother. How is that ? ” 

“ Can I tell you ? 

‘ Je cognois tout f ors que moy mesme.* 

Man is Eden in little : there is the slime of the serpent 
under the tree of knowledge, but the Lord God walks 
through the garden in the cool of the day. What are 
we but contradictions, shadows of Montfaucon shot 
through by glories from Notre Dame. Perhaps some 
day a clearer knowledge than ours will straighten out 
the tangles,” and with a laugh, which had little joy- 
ousness in it, Villon plunged afresh into memories 
which seemed to strike the whole gamut of a soul’s 
experience from A to G. 

La Mothe allowed him to run on without interrup- 
tion. The alternations of mood, tender and callous 
by turns, but never remorseful, never regretful, except 
with the regrets for a lost delight, both amused and 
repelled him, but at last as Villon sat silent he turned 
to the window and flung open the wooden sun-blinds. 


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THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“ At last they are awake in the Chateau,” he said. 
“Horses? hawks? Are they going hunting, do you 
suppose ? ” 

“ Saxe will know. Hulloa ! Saxe ! Saxe I What 
is little Charles doing to-day ? ” 

“ I was coming for you both,” answered Saxe, from 
the open door. “ They are riding to Chateau-Renaud, 
and your worships are so beloved by both the Dauphin 
and mademoiselle that you must needs go with them. 
Monsieur de Commines and Monsieur La Follette have 
gone hawking for the day.” 

“Do not go,” said Villon. “They know you at 
Chateau-Renaud, and how could you explain if they 
recognized you ? ” 

“But we may not go near the inn,” answered La 
Mothe, to whom the ride meant neither more nor less 
than a morning with Ursula de Vesc, therefore a de- 
light not to be denied. “ But what of horses ? ” 

“They are being saddled this very moment,” re- 
plied Jean Saxe, and then went on to paint out La 
Mothe’s roseate dreams with the dull brush of reali- 
ties. “ Always,” and he lowered his voice as he spoke, 
“whether by day or by night, you will find a horse 
waiting ready for your ride to Valmy. It is in the 
stall facing the door, monsieur. By day the stable is 
open and not a soul will ask questions; saddle and 
bridle for yourself, then ride like the devil. By night 
send a stone through the last window on the left and 
I will be with you in three seconds. Don’t spare your 
spurs, that’s my advice.” 

“ God send the man who rides to Valmy nothing 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


123 


redder than a red spur.” Villon had joined La Mothe 
at the window, and was peering out at the stir of men 
and horses in the open space between the inn and the 
castle gates. 

“ Saxe, what man of yours is that who is bitting Grey 
Roland ? I don’t know his face.” 

“ A stop-gap,” answered Saxe indifferently. “ A 
gipsy fellow I think he is by his colour. Old Michel 
is drunk in the barn — how I don’t know, but the 
Chien Noir is none the better for it — this other is in 
his place for the day. I don’t know his name, but he 
can tell a horse from a mule by more than the ears, and 
that’s name enough for me.” 

“ Who owns that huge, raw-boned roan?” asked La 
Mothe. “ Surely I have seen it somewhere.” 

“ It’s as much a stranger to me as Michel’s stop-gap,” 
answered Saxe. “ It’s not one of the regular Chateau 
horses, that’s certain. The beast has power in his legs, 
rough though he is. Why do you ask, monsieur ? 

But La Mothe had already lost his interest. “ There 
is the Dauphin,” he said. “ Come, let us go.” 

But his gaze was fixed on the slender figure which 
followed the boy, and the eyes of a much greyer age 
than a lover of twenty-four with the heart of eighteen 
might well have lit into a sparkle at the charm of the 
picture. He was not learned in women’s stuffs, or the 
hundred little arts through which an accent, as it were, 
is put upon a charm already sufficiently gracious, or a 
beauty brought into yet clearer relief for the luring 
and undoing of the unsuspecting male, and so could 
not have told whether Ursula de Vesc was clad in 


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THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


sober grey or sunny lightness. She was Ursula de 
Vesc, and that was enough, Ursula de Vesc, the woman 
of a single hour of life, and yet the one sweet woman 
in the world. 

“ A lover’s arms ought to be her riding-chair,” said 
Villon, following La Mothe’s gaze. “ No, there is no 
offence meant,” he added, as Stephen’s face reddened 
with the beginnings of umbrage. “ She may be a 
spitfire and not love Francois Villon, but she is a good 
girl, and my four eyes are not blind.” 

“ Your four eyes?” questioned La Mothe ; “most of 
us have but two.” 

“ Two in my head and two in my sense, and it is by 
the two in his sense a man should marry. The two in the 
head are the greatest liars and deceivers in creation.” 

The Dauphin had already mounted when La Mothe 
and Villon crossed the roadway with their horses fol- 
lowing, led by drunken Michel’s substitute, and his 
greeting to both was of the curtest. The apologue 
of the night before was neither forgotten nor forgiven. 
But with Ursula de Vesc’s grey eyes smiling at him 
La Mothe cared little for the boy’s dour looks. 
Hugues, who had mounted his master, still waited by 
the horse’s head, a spirited, high-bred bay, sleek and 
well groomed, which stood shifting its feet with impa- 
tience at the delay. The bridle of the less fiery but 
no less well-cared-for jennet intended for the girl was 
held by a stable-helper, while in a group behind the 
escort made ready to mount. Neither Commines nor 
La Follette was present; they had gone hawking, as 
Saxe had said, nor was Hugues booted for riding. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


125 


“Good morning, Monsieur La Mothe.” Ursula de 
Vesc spoke gaily, frankly, as if she had not a care in the 
world, and the greeting in the soft clear voice stirred La 
Mothe’s heart as the smile in the grey eyes had stirred 
it. “We missed you at breakfast: what early risers 
you poets are.” 

“ Mademoiselle,” stammered La Mothe, “ my day has 
but now begun.” 

“ Then you must walk in your sleep,” she interrupted 
laughingly. “ Monseigneur, do you hear ? Monsieur La 
Mothe walks in his sleep. So do not be frightened if 
you hear him in the corridor o’ nights. He has been up 
these three hours and says the day has only now begun.” 

“ I hear,” replied Charles, turning on La Mothe those 
dull, watchful eyes which, according to Villon, saw so 
much more than men supposed. “ And Hugues hears 
too. While Hugues sleeps at my door I shan’t be 
frightened. Come, Ursula, mount and let us go. 
Bertrand is so restive I can scarcely hold him.” 

At that moment La Mothe felt the bridle of Grey 
Roland pushed into his hand with a “Hold that a 
moment, monsieur,” and Jean Saxe’s stop-gap crossed 
to the Dauphin’s side. 

“Your pardon, Monseigneur,” he said, stooping, 
“there is a buckle loose, if your Highness would lift 
your leg a moment while I fasten it.” 

“A buckle? Where?” 

“Below the saddle-flap. Monseigneur: a shift of the 
leg — thank you. Monseigneur, that is right,” and he 
drew back toward the Chien Noir, nor paused until he 
was lost in the crowd of idlers. For a gipsy he was 
singularly unobtrusive. 


CHAPTER XIV 


FOR LIFE AND A THRONE 

Slipping his foot back into the stirrup the Dauphin 
mechanically closed his knees, as a rider does to renew 
his grip after it has been relaxed. But with the tight- 
ening of the grip the bay started as if goaded by a 
vicious double rasp of the spurs, swerved violently, 
shaking his head till the chains rattled, then plunging 
to right and left he sprang forward at a gallop. 

“Hugues, Hugues, catch the reins,” cried madem- 
oiselle, but the swerve had sent Hugues staggering, 
and before he had steadied himself or regained his wits 
Bertrand was tearing madly under the city gates, his 
reins hanging loose, his neck stretched like a racer’s. 

“ The Dauphin I the Dauphin ! Oh I for God’s 
sake — Hugues — Monsieur La Mothe — is there no one 
to help ? They will be in the Loire — drowned while 
you stand there staring. Oh I that I could ride like 
a man : why don’t you move, some of you, stocks that 
you are ? ” 

The gasped words were but a breath, so quickly the 
broken sentences followed one another, but before the 
frightened girl could lash them with the whip of her 
distress a second time La Mothe had his fingers knit in 
Grey Roland’s mane and was climbing into the saddle, 
126 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


127 


and the last he heard, as, swaying in his seat, he groped 
blindly for a missing stirrup, was the girl’s deep breath, 
half sob, half cry. 

Bertrand had a long start, but on Grey Roland’s back 
was a rider who in his horsemanship) had learned not 
only how to save his beast, so that no ounce of strength 
might be unduly hurried to waste, but who also knew 
how to compel into immediate energy all that reserve 
force which endures the trials of a long day’s march. 

Bareheaded — his hat was in his hand as he jested 
with Ursula de Vesc, and in the stress of the surprise 
he had flung it aside — La Mo the crouched low in the 
saddle, the reins gathered into his left hand so that he 
and Grey Roland alike were just conscious of the bit 
in the sensitive mouth. For the moment, with that 
tense grip of the knees, they were as one flesh: the 
need was they should be of one spirit. With a 
quiet word La Mothe soothed the excitement which 
might have plunged them both to sudden destruction 
on the rounded cobbles of the paved streets, but once 
the gates were passed, and the dust of the high road 
underfoot, he loosed the light tension and pressed his 
heels home into the flanks. There, ahead, a shifting 
vision in the rising swirl of dust, was the bay, thunder- 
ing at top speed. Behind there were shouts, cries, the 
clatter of iron shoes upon the stones, but La Mothe 
heard only the muffled rhythm of galloping hoof-beats 
sounding through the roar of the blood swelling his 
temples and booming in his ears like the surf of a far- 
off sea. Away to the side, with a stretch of sunburnt 
grass between, lay the river. Let Bertrand keep to 


128 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


the winding road and all was well. Gallop how he 
might Grey Roland would wear him down, but let him 
swerve, let the fluttering of a bird startle him aside, 
and Ursula de Vesc’s prophetic terrors would be justi- 
fied. 

As the memory of her dread flashed into his mind 
afresh, there swept across Stephen La Mothe one of 
those sudden storms of temptation which at some time 
or another beat into every life, even the most sheltered, 
and surely prove that the curse of primal sin still dwells 
inherent in our best humanity. “ He will drown ! 
Well, let him drown ! ” and in the instant of the 
thought, by some instinct of the brain, the loose rein 
was drawn in with a jerk, which forced the grey to 
change his stride. Let him drown and there was an 
end to the tangle which made a hell in the possible 
heaven of Amboise, an end to the unnatural strife of 
father and son, an end to the threatened rending 
asunder of France, who was the mistress and mother of 
them all, whether King, Dauphin, or pawn in the 
terrible game of life and death, an end to the danger 
which hung over the head of Ursula de Vesc. Let 
him drown : death would pay all debts, and the crooked 
would be made straight. 

Gritting his teeth La Mothe drew a deep breath. 
With the fuller realization of the thought the sudden 
convulsion of his heart choked him, and while his 
blood buzzed the louder for the possibility, fate, chance, 
or what you will threw the cards in the game his way. 
Beyond a bend of the road a waggoner’s leisurely wain 
plodded its way to Amboise, and next instant the 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 129 

clearer thunder of Bertrand’s hoofs came ringing back 
from the harder sod which lay between the river and 
the road. The bay had headed for the bank where, 
by the same bend, the river curved to a line ahead. 
Death would pay all debts, and the crooked would be 
made straight ; he would pay Commines all he owed 
him and there would be clean hands for them both. 
Clean hands? “By God! No!” he cried, and shook 
the tightened rein loose. Clean hands ? Saul, who 
consented to Stephen’s death, was as red-handed as the 
man who hurled the first stone: what better was it to 
let the boy ride to his fate unaided ? That way there 
was no cleansing of hands. To permit a preventable 
death was murder — murder. 

Stooping lower La Mothe drove Grey Roland for- 
ward, urging him with voice and hand, “Faster, boy, 
faster, faster.” That he had no spurs was a point 
against him, but drawing his dagger he laid the point 
against the wet flank. There was no need to draw 
blood, no need for goading. The generous heart of 
the beast understood the touch, and the splendid 
muscles coined their utmost strength, squandering it 
in a spendthrift, willing energy. They were gaining 
now, stride by stride they were gaining : Bertrand, the 
half Arab, had the greater endurance, but English Grey 
Roland the greater power and the stouter heart. Yes, 
they were gaining, and there was hope if only the 
Dauphin kept the saddle, and so far he had held his 
place like a crouched statue, stooping by instinct as La 
Mothe had stooped, and clinging to the long mane with 
both hands. He was no coward, boy though he was, 


130 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


and not once had looked back, nor did he now though 
the following hoofs must have been loud in his ears as 
stride by stride the grey gained on the bay, and the ten 
lengths of space between them closed to five, to three, 
to one, and the glint of the river rose almost at their 
feet. Then La Mothe spoke. 

“ Monseigneur, keep your nerve, it will be all right. 
When I say ‘Now!’ loose your hold and try to kick 
your feet free from the stirrups; leave the rest to me.” 

The gap narrowed foot by foot : up to the girth of 
the bay crept the straining muzzle of the grey, the eye- 
balls staring, the teeth bared, the nostrils wide, the 
foam fiying with every jar of the hoof, up and up with 
a scant two yards of river-bank to spare upon the outer 
side, up and up till, leaning forward and aside with out- 
stretched arm. La Mothe could feel the pressing of the 
Dauphin’s back, and the hand closed in upon the ribs. 
“ Now,” he cried, his voice cracked and hoarse. “ Now, 
Christ help us, now, now,” and gripping the boy he 
reined back as tightly as he dared, reined back to feel 
the slender boy slip from the bay’s back, hang helpless 
in the air an instant, then fall sprawling across the 
saddle. On dashed the bay, and as Grey Roland 
staggered in his halt the bank caved under the Arab’s 
feet; he too staggered, rearing back too late, then 
plunged head foremost forward. 

As, dropping the reins. La Mothe caught the Dau- 
phin in both his arms to raise him more fully upon the 
saddle, he was conscious for the first time that they were 
followed. From behind there was a shout and the 
noise of hoofs, and looking across his shoulder he saw 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


131 


Hugues mounted on the roan riding recklessly. Be- 
yond him the rest of the escort tailed off almost to the 
city gate, with Ursula de Vesc framed by the grey arch, 
her hand upon her breast, as it had been when La 
Mothe first saw her. Love the Enemy, whom he so 
longed to make Love the more than friend. “Win the 
girl and you win the boy,” said Villon. But what if 
he had won the boy, and winning him had won Ursula 
de Vesc, won her to friendliness, won her to kindliness, 
won her to trust, won her to — and Hugues thundered 
up breathlessly. 

“ Monseigneur ? ” 

“Safe, unhurt, but I think he has fainted. Here,” 
and lifting the lad with little effort La Mothe leaned 
across to Hugues and won his heart for ever by the act, 
“ take him, you : he will be less fretted when he comes 
to himself. The sooner he is in mademoiselle’s care 
the better, and I must spare Grey Roland.” 

“Monsieur, monsieur,” stammered the valet, gath- 
ering the boy into his arms as carefully as any 
tender woman, “ how can we thank you — how can we 
prove ” 

“ Thank Grey Roland,” answered La Mothe, speak- 
ing more lightly than he felt. “ I did nothing but keep 
my stirrups.” 

“Nothing?” Hugues’ eyes turned to the gapped 
bank and followed the course of the river, void of any 
trace of the bay. “Then to save a king for France is 
nothing. But you are right, monsieur ; the sooner the 
Dauphin is in Amboise the better.” 

“ Was it for this you came to Amboise? ” said Villon, 


132 


THE JUSTICE OP THE KING 


as La Mothe, having given Grey Roland his own time 
to return, halted at the inn door. The crowd had been 
shaken off and the two were alone. “ I doubt it my- 
self, and you should have heard Saxe curse : I give you 
my word it was Parisian. But, as I said last night, 
what you do in Amboise is between you and the King, 
and you won’t be the first man in the world who could 
not see beyond a pair of grey eyes.” 

“ Come, Villon, no Paris jests.” 

“This was pure nature and no jest. I stood near 
her there in the shadow of the gate as Roland drew 
in to the bay on the edge of the bank, and she forgot 
Francois Villon, the guard, and everybody, as a woman 
does when her soul speaks to her heart. Not a word 
had she said till then, not one, but stood breathing 
deep breaths ; there were red spots on the cheek-bones, 
with those little white teeth of hers hard on her lip. 
But when you leant aside and gripped the boy she 
cried — but what matters what she cried? ” 

“Is not friend more than family 2 ” said La Mothe. 
“Tell me, my friend.” 

“So you would win old Villon as well as the girl? 
Well, here it is then — ‘Thank God I was wrong, oh, 
thank God I was wrong : God be thanked for a good 
man,’ and the tears were tumbling down her cheeks. 
My friend,” and Villon’s voice deepened soberly, “I 
who am old have been young, and I tell you this, if a 
man has any true salt in him at all, heaven may well 
open for him when a woman like Ursula de Vesc calls 
him good with tears on her cheeks.” And La Mothe had 
the wisdom and humble grace to answer nothing at all. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


133 


It was Villon himself who broke the silence with a 
whistle. 

“ I am forgetting, fool that I am, though I think you 
too would have forgotten with a pair of grey eyes weep- 
ing at your elbow. What do you call this? ” 

From the cloth pouch which hung from his girdle he 
drew a small twig and handed it to La Mothe. It was 
a spray of wild sloe cut from a thicket and trimmed to 
the shape of a cross, with one stiff thorn, broad based 
and sharp at the point as a needle, projecting at right 
angles from the intersection. The marks of the knife 
were still fresh upon it, the bark so soft and sappy that 
it must have been cut from the living plant within the 
hour. La Mothe shook his head as he turned it over 
on his palm. 

“ This ? What do you call it ? ” 

“ Many things ; the shadow of death for one ; re- 
venge, I think, for another; hate, and a warning cer- 
tainly, unless I am a fool as well as all the hard things 
Monsieur d’Argenton calls me. And perhaps I am 
a fool, perhaps I had better have left that lying where 
I found it. Almost death, that’s just what it is.” 

“ Villon, what do you mean ? ” 

“ I mean you would find just such another bit of vil- 
lainous innocence under Bertrand’s saddle-flap. The 
poor brute was driven mad by it. I picked this up 
where Michel’s stop-gap dropped it.” 

“ That hedge-side beggar ? ” 

“A hedge-side beggar who carries a signet slung 
round his neck. His jacket opened as he stooped and 
the ring swung out. The hedge-side beggar boasts 


134 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


a crest, Monsieur La Mothe : a martlet with three 
mullets in chief. Now do you understand?” 

“No.” 

“ It is the crest of the Molembrais. There were two 
brothers, the last of their family, and Guy de Molem- 
brais trusted our revered King — yes, I see you know 
the name.” 

Know the name ? La Mothe knew it as he knew the 
justice of the King. Had he not given his satire a 
loose rein over the safe-conduct which drew this very 
Guy de Molembrais to Valmy, and the swift ruthless- 
ness which brushed aside any such feeble plea as a 
King’s good faith ? If Villon was right then this little 
inch or two of new-cut twig might indeed be all he 
said, the shadow of death, revenge, hate, and a warning 
against further attempts of a like kind yet to be faced. 
But was he right ? 

“ Are you quite sure ? ” 

“Quite,” and Villon nodded. His face was very 
grave : not for an instant had he slipped into his sar- 
donic mood of ironical jest. “And, mind you, I find 
it hard to blame Molembrais. He must strike how 
and when he can.” 

“ Does Saxe know ? ” 

“ Better not ask. I told you he swore, but that may 
have been at the way you pounded his horse.” 

La Mothe had dismounted while they talked, and 
now, leaving the grey where he stood, the sweat caking 
on his dusty flanks, he turned to the stables. But if 
his intention was to charge Molembrais with his cow- 
ardly attempt on the boy’s life it was baulked. At the 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


135 


door Michel met him, his rheumy eyes still blinking 
from his drunken sleep. 

“ Where is that fellow who took your place ? ” 

“That’s what I want to know, master. Took my 
place, did he ? I’d place him, I would, making an old 
man drunk to rob him of his bread.” 

“ Who was he ? ” 

“No good, that’s all I know. Gipsy scum ! rob an 
old man, would he? I’ll gipsy him if I find hair or 
hoof of him. Lord, master, how liquor do make a man 
thirsty. You must ha’ found it so yourself ? ” 


CHAPTER XV 


A QUESTION IN THEOLOGY 

Never was the cynical philosophy of the proverb, 
Virtue is its own reward, made more clear than in 
the indifference with which Amboise greeted the res- 
cue of the Dauphin. Of course, there are those who 
contend that virtue is in itself a sufficient reward, but 
there is certainly a second possible reading, and this 
reading La Mothe found true. No one said what a 
fine fellow he was, no one stared in admiration of his 
promptitude or in awe of his courage. Amboise was 
cold, chillingly cold. 

Hugues, perhaps, was an exception, and if Villon 
was right Ursula de Vesc had also been deeply moved. 
But that. La Mothe told himself as he wandered dis- 
consolately through the dull and gloomy corridors of 
the Chateau, might have been nothing more than the 
transitory emotion of an excited girl moved to an 
expression repented of when the mood cooled. 

So, as lovers have done ever since this hoar world 
was young, he gave himself up to melancholy and 
found, as more than lovers have found, a satisfaction 
in a grievance. Then, while he fumed, three half- 
grown spaniel puppies, followed more sedately by a 
full-grown brother, came scampering around a corner, 
136 


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137 


and the lover remembered he was a sportsman who 
loved dogs as well as little Charles himself. It was 
almost the sole hereditary trait in the lad, and the pas- 
sion for animals was as strong in the Dauphin as it was 
in the King. 

Round the corner, full cry, they raced, slipped upon 
the smooth flags, tumbled, rolled over, and with a com- 
mon impulse fell upon one another as puppies will in 
the sheer joy of living. But the elder dog, if he still 
had the heart of eighteen or younger, did not forget he 
was twenty-four with responsibilities and a dignity to 
maintain. Passing gravely by the riot of paws and 
flapping ears he halted a yard away from La Mothe, 
pushed out a sensitive, twitching nose, sniffed the hand 
held out in greeting and as gravely licked it. Love at 
first sight is not confined to humanity, and thanks to 
the unfailing miracle of instinct the dog makes fewer 
mistakes than man. Inside of two minutes he had 
adopted La Mothe into the very select circle of his 
friends. 

“ I have heard of you,” said La Mothe, pulling the 
soft ears gently. “ You sleep in the Dauphin’s room o’ 
nights as Hugues does at the door, and now and then 
you lay your head on her knee, while she strokes and 
pets [you, lucky dog that you are. Why was I not 
born a dog, tell me that?” 

At the sound of his voice the puppies ceased their 
play, sat up panting a moment, and then in a tumul- 
tuous bunch rushed upon La Mothe. Charlemagne 
vouched for him, Charlemagne who was their oracle 
as grown-up brothers so often are, and they could let 


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loose the exuberance of their puppydom without a fear 
that a sudden cuff would teach their youth that wild 
delights find an end in sorrow. Over each other they 
sprawled in their heedless eagerness to get near to this 
new playfellow, one, a little weaker than the rest, lag- 
ging a half-taiFs length behind, and La Mothe was so 
busy trying to find a hand for each to mumble that he 
never knew how long Ursula de Vesc stood watching 
him. 

Nor was she in any haste to break the silence. A 
puzzling factor had come into her life, and she was 
impatient of the enigma. The solution was not a 
question of curiosity but of safety, and a safety not 
her own. On one side was Commines, Louis’ devoted 
adherent, devoted not alone in service, but in blindness, 
the blindness which questions neither means nor pur- 
pose ; on the other side was Villon, Louis’ jackal and 
open ears in Amboise. Between these two so pro- 
foundly distrusted stood Stephen La Mothe. Between 
them, but was he of them ? That was the problem. 

That morning, from Hugues’ report of the visit in 
the darkened quiet of the Chateau, and remembering 
how familiarly Villon had introduced La Mothe over- 
night, she had had no doubt, and the cautious secrecy 
of the rendezvous with Commines argued some sinister 
threat. But now she doubted, and as she watched La 
Mothe’s careless play with the dogs the doubt grew. 
Hugues had kept his eyes open : the gapped bank and 
the narrow strip of grass between the bay and the river 
into which the grey horse had been thrust, without a 
hesitating thought of the inevitable result which must 


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139 


follow a slip or a swerve, spoke not alone of personal 
courage, but said plainly that La Mothe was ready to 
risk his life for the Dauphin. Neither Commines nor 
Villon would have done that, they would have let him 
perish and raised no hand to save him. 

Where, then, was the sinister threat? And had not 
the devotion which she had so contemptuously scoffed 
at the night before already proved itself to be no empty 
word ? Yes, she had scoffed, and he had answered her 
scoff at the risk of his life. How, then, could he be 
one with Commines and Villon? The thought that 
she had so misjudged him flushed her as with a sudden 
heat, the grey eyes grew tenderly troubled in her self- 
reproach, and unconsciously she drew a deeper breath. 
Slight as the sound was the dogs heard it ; round they 
spun from their play, their mouths open, their tongues 
hanging, and next moment were leaping upon her 
skirts with little yelps of greeting. 

“ Mademoiselle I ” and La Mothe sprang to his feet. 
“I did not hear you coming: how could I have been 
so deaf ? ” It was on his tongue to add, “ I, who have 
been listening for the sound of your feet these hours 
past,” but he wisely checked himself in time. 

“Are you going to win all Amboise in a single 
day?” she answered, stooping so that the jubilant 
puppies almost scrambled into her lap. “You do not 
ask after the Dauphin ? ” 

“ I fear I had forgotten him,” he replied, and though 
there was no intentional significance in his voice Ursula 
de Vesc was woman enough to understand the subtle 
compliment. “ How is he? ” 


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THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“ If you forget, we do not. He is as well as a nervous 
boy can be after such an ordeal. He is looking for- 
ward to seeing you this afternoon to try to say to you 

what we all feel. Monsieur La Mothe, let me ” 

“Nervous he may be, but he is no coward,” inter- 
rupted La Mothe hastily. He foresaw what was com- 
ing and had all a shy man’s horror of being thanked. 
“ He sat his horse like a little hero. There is no such 
courage as to wait quietly for death.” 

“And what of the courage which goes to meet 
death?” Pushing the dogs from her Ursula de Vesc 
looked up, her face very grave and tender in the 
shadows, as the spring of tears glistened under the 
lashes. Life had brought her so little to be grateful 
for that the happiness of gratitude was very great. 

“No, you must let me speak this once, I said hard 
things to you last night, and my thoughts were still 
harder: to-day you have answered me, and I am 
ashamed. Devotion ? Gratitude ? It is we who owe 
you these, and we have nothing wherewith to pay. 

Monsieur La Mothe ” 

But again La Mothe interrupted her. 

“ Think kindly sometimes and I am more than paid. 
Forgive the presumption, for why should you think of 
me at all? Forget the hard thoughts, mademoiselle, 
and let that pay in full.” 

“ There can be no more hard thoughts. How could 
we think hard thoughts of our friends ? ” 

“ Friends ? If that might be.” 

With the quick instinct which belongs to well-bred 
puppydom, and is not unknown even in children, the 


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141 


dogs had caught the graver note which changed her 
voice. By common consent they ceased their restless 
play and, seated on their haunches, their sleek heads 
aslant, watched her with wistful eyes; here was some- 
thing their love could not quite understand. 

“Friends? Amboise has more need of friends than 
Landless of the Duchy of Lacke very thing.” The girl 
had risen slowly to her feet as she repeated La Mothe’s 
words, and now as she paused the shadow again broke 
in lines of troubled care along her forehead. “Mon- 
sieur La Mothe, what was the end of the story you 
began last night ? ” 

“ It has no end as yet. The end is here in Amboise, 
and my hope is we may find it together. I am sure we 
will if you will but help me. But the story is true.” 

“ How can you say that ? ” she burst out passionately. 
“Where do you find one little, little sign of love in 
Amboise? I can see none, none at all. Nothing but 
neglect, suspicion, even hate. Oh ! it is terrible that a 
father should so hate his son. And yet you say there 
is love.” 

“I say what I know. Trust me, and give me time to 
prove it.” 

“We do trust you, indeed we do. Love in Amboise? 
Is it for that you are here ? ” 

“Yes,” answered La Mothe soberly. “It is for that 
I am here?” 

“ And Monsieur d’Argenton ? Is that why he is here 
too ? ” 

For a moment La Mothe returned no reply, but stood 
passing his fingers through Charlemagne’s soft hair. 


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THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


The lie direct or the lie inferential would parry the 
question and possibly serve both Commines and the 
King; but how could he keep his hands clean in Am- 
boise and lie even by inference to Ursula de Vesc who 
had said so simply, “We trust you”? It was impos- 
sible, not to be thought of for a moment, but neither 
was the whole truth. 

“ Monsieur d’Argenton and I are not upon the same 
errand,” he said at last. “ Some day, when you know 
me better, and trust me for something better than a 
little brute courage which any man in my place would 
have shown, I will ask you a question. When you 
have answered it — and I know what the answer will 
be — I will tell you why Monsieur d’Argenton is in 
Amboise.” 

“ Monsieur La Mothe, ask your question now.” 

“ No, the time has not come. But I will ask this : 
Help me that the Dauphin may trust me, and together 
we will make the end of the story Love and Peace and 
Faith.” 

“ Love and Peace and Faith,” she repeated, her eyes 
filling for the second time. “ They have long been 
strangers to Amboise. God send our France such a 
trinity.” 

And again La Mothe had to check himself lest he 
should reply, “To you too, mademoiselle.” To bring 
just such a trinity into her life. Love which worketh 
Faith, and the Peace which is born of both, was the one 
supreme good which the world could offer out of all the 
gifts in its treasure-house. But, as he said of his ques- 
tion, the time had not yet come, so he changed the 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


143 


blunt directness to the more oblique “ Not to France 
alone,” and was rewarded by seeing the serious wistful- 
ness shift into a gay smile, as she curtsied mockingly 
with a “ Merci, monsieur ! ” very different from the same 
words of the previous night. Then she added, as the 
dogs, following her lighter mood, sprung upon her 
anew : 

“ Here I have two of them already, but certainly 
they give one little peace. Have they been formally 
introduced? This is Diane, who will be a mighty 
huntress in her day. This we call Lui-meme because,” 
she paused, flashing a mischievous glance at La Mothe, 
“ well, just because his temper is not very good. He 
is a bully and uses his teeth on poor Chariot, who is the 
weakest of the three and the one we love best. But 
Chariot has one bad habit, he is very inquisitive, and it 
will get you into trouble some day. Chariot dear” : 
whereat Chariot cocked his ears and looked wise. 

Later that afternoon Charles spoke his thanks for 
himself, and said them with the dignity of a Dauphin 
of France struggling through the shy manners of a 
self-conscious schoolboy. But interpenetrating both 
dignity and self-conscious diffidence there was a frank- 
ness which told La Mothe that Ursula de Vesc’s influence 
was already at work. The cold distaste had already 
disappeared, nor was there any suggestion of a com- 
pelled gratitude. Commines and La Follette had not 
returned from their hawking, and only Father John 
and the girl were with the Dauphin. 

He had been conversing with the priest, but broke 
off abruptly when La Mothe was announced. 


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THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“ Monsieur,” he said, his hand stretched out as he 
went hastily to meet him, “ there are some services 
hard to repay. No, I don’t mean services, services 
is not the word. Services are for servants and I don’t 
mean that, but perhaps you understand ? And perhaps, 
too, some day you will teach me to ride as well as 
you do?” 

“ There is little to teach,” answered La Mothe. “And 
as I told Hugues, it is Grey Roland who should be 
thanked.” 

“ What the heir cannot do, being as yet a child,” 
said the priest, “ the grateful father can and surely 
will.” Then he laid his hand on the Dauphin’s shoul- 
der. “ Were you greatly afraid, my son? At such a 
time, with death so near, fear would not shame a man, 
much less a boy.” 

“When Bertrand swerved I was afraid just for a 
moment, for I did not know what was going to happen, 
but not afterwards.” 

“But afterwards, in that awful moment when hope 
was gone and the world slipped from you, when there 
was nothing real but God and your own soul, what 
were your thoughts then ? ” 

The boy made no reply, but shifted uneasily under 
the hand which still rested upon him. The heavy eyes 
which had brightened while he spoke to La Mothe grew 
dull and peevishly sullen again as, according to habit, 
he glanced towards Ursula de Vesc. Following the 
glance La Mothe saw the girl shake her head warningly, 
apprehensively even : but Charles had not the obsti- 
nate Valois chin for nothing. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


145 


“Perhaps you have forgotten? At such times the 
mind is not very clear. Or perhaps it was like a dream ? 
Dreams, you know, are forgotten when we wake.*’ 

“I remember very well. Yes, Ursula, I shall tell 
him since he asks. I wondered whether a son who 
hated his father, or a father who hated his son, would 
be most certainly damned.” 

“ My son, my son,” cried the priest, horrified. “ How 
could you allow such a terrible thought ? ” 

“ Oh I ” And the boy shook off the restraining hand 
impatiently. “You come from Valmy and are like all 
the rest of them. Monsieur La Mothe, let us go and 
thank Grey Roland.” 

But as he followed the Dauphin out of the room La 
Mothe asked himself whether, even with Ursula de 
Vesc’s help, the end of the story could possibly be 
Love, Peace, and Faith. 


L 


CHAPTER XVI 


TOO SLOW AND TOO FAST 

“ I TOLD you at the first you were not going the 
right way about it.” 

“And you were wrong,” answered La Mothe. “I 
am only ten days in Amboise, ten days which seem like 
so many hours, and already Charles trusts me as he 
trusts Mademoiselle de Vesc.” 

Pushing out his loose-hung under lip Villon eyed his 
companion quizzically, but with a little pity through 
the banter. They were alone in the common room of 
the Chien Noir, and on the table by which they sat 
were two bottles of the famous ’63 wine, one empty, the 
other with its tide at a low ebb, but La Mothe’s horn 
mug was still unemptied after its first filling. With 
some men this would have been an offence, but not with 
Francois Villon. “ Good-fellowship is not in wine but 
in words, or surer still, in silence,” he would say, “ and 
another man’s drinking neither warms my heart nor 
cools my thirst. Besides, there is the more left for the 
wiser man.” 

“ Ten days of opportunity, and you are content that 
a boy trusts you ! Lovers were not so coldly contented 
in the good old days of the Paris pavements. Soul of 
the world! but there is no talk like Paris talk. La 
146 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


147 


Mothe, you will never be a man till you hear it. Cling- 
clang go the feet, and cling-clang sing the flags under 
them, cling-clang, cling-clang, and I’ll never hear it again 
— never. Content, d’you say ? I’ll not believe it. I’ll 
not think so little of you. The Good God never meant 
man to be content. How would the world move ? ” 

“I’m winning what I came to Amboise to win.” 

“ A snap of the finger,” and Villon filliped his own 
noisily, “ for what you came to Amboise to win. The 
garden grows more flowers than fleurs-de-lis, and better 
worth the plucking. Eh, my young friend? I think 
there is a certain tall, slim Madonna lily ” 

“No Paris jests, Villon.” 

“Trust Francois Villon ! Jest?” His eyes twinkled 
humorously over the edge of his tilted horn cup as he 
finished the second bottle. “In all divine creation 
there is nothing so solemn as the heart of youth in its 
first love. It is the first, is it not, La Mothe ? Gods 
of Olympus I was I ever as young as you? I think 
Paris aged me before I was breeched. But to go back 
to my garden. Do you dislike the simile — a Madonna 
lily? ” 

“The subject is distasteful.” 

“Mademoiselle de Vesc distasteful? Monsieur La 
Mothe, I apologize. In all my Paris days I was never 
such a hypocrite as to make love to a woman who was 
distasteful. But then, is any woman distasteful if a 
man be only in the right mood?” 

“ Villon, that is untrue ” 

“My friend, I know my past better than you do. 
Distasteful? Pah! it is an ugly word.” 


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THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“ What you say of me is untrue. I honour Made- 
moiselle de Vesc ” 

“Much she cares for that! ‘No, thank you!’ said 
the cat, when they gave her frozen milk. Honouring 
is cold love-making. And now you have proved that 
you don’t go the right way about it. ‘ Mademoiselle,’ ” 
and Villon minced a melancholy falsetto, “ ‘ I respect 
you deeply ; mademoiselle, I honour you humbly from 
a distance; you are the highest star in the heavens, 
and I a worm of the earth ! Permit me to kiss your 
venerated finger-tips.’ Honour ! Bah ! get nearer to 
them, man; nearer to them; the closer the better; 
honour is too far off. Listen, now, while I teach you a 
better way.” 

“ Thank you for nothing,” said La Mothe drily, but 
unoffended. In these ten days he had learned which 
of Villon’s jests were innocent of intention to hurt, 
and which carried a poisoned barb. “ Love may be 
bought in Paris, but not in Amboise.” 

“ But it costs more,” retorted Villon. “ In Amboise 
it costs a man’s whole life, whereas in Paris,” he paused, 
shrugged his shoulders, turned the drinking mug up- 
side down and shook it whimsically, “ emptiness ended 
all : emptiness of pocket, emptiness of — but there are 
seven separate emptinesses and any one was enough. 
Now listen and do not interrupt again. There be many 
ways of gathering peaches, but your way of kneeling at 
the foot of the tree with your hands folded like a saint 
in stained glass is the worst of ail. It is only in theory 
that women, even lily Madonnas, love men to be saints ; 
when it comes to practice ” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


149 


He broke off, chuckling the soft complacent chuckle 
La Mothe so greatly disliked, and putting the empty 
mug to his nose drew in the perfume of the wine with 
a deep breath. The lids drooped slowly over his shin- 
ing eyes, and in the backward groping along the 
crooked byways which had led from Paris pavements to 
the mercy of Louis by way of an escaped gallows he 
forgot both La Mothe and Amboise. The voice of 
Paris the beloved, Paris the ever mourned for, was in 
his ears ; the jargon of the Rue Maubert, the tinkle of 
the glasses through the doubtful but merry songs of the 
Pet du Deable, whispers of gay voices which had long 
passed beyond these voices, and the leering face, part 
satyr and part poet, grew wholly poet in its remem- 
brance. It is the blessing of nature, and one of its 
most divine gifts, that memory brings back the best 
from the past and leaves the worst covered. Even our 
snows of yester year are roseate with the glow of im- 
agination. 

“ The Madonna lily ! Blessed is the man who 
gathers one and finds warm blood in its pure veins. 
The gift of a good woman who loves and is loved. 
Aye, aye, God send us all heaven while we’re young. 
The Madonna lily ! Once there was such a one in 
the garden of life, pure, sweet, and beloved. But 
the perfume was not for Francois Villon, and the 
swine in him turned to the husks of the trough. 
Catherine de Vaucelles; Catherine, dead these many 
years, dead but never forgotten, a saint with the 
saints of God, and the rest — damned.” He spoke 
to himself rather than to La Mothe, but after a 


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little spell of silence he looked up, gravely in earnest. 
“ You go too slowly. Any day the King may crook 
his finger. What if he calls you to Valmy, then 
sends you God knows where, God knows for how 
long, and you return to Amboise to find some one 
else has gathered your lily while you lagged? That 
would be a chilly winter in the garden of life where 
you left young spring.’’ 

La Mothe sat silent. What reply was possible? 
That the advice was well meant he knew, but he 
had never before realized that a peremptory recall 
might come any moment from Valmy. And it was 
not impossible. Louis, aged and ailing, spurred, too, 
by the desire for the comfort of his son’s love while 
life was still good to the taste, would be impatient of 
delay. These ten days which had passed with the 
swiftness of a summer’s morning would be long as a 
wintry month to the lonely father. But to the devout 
lover, in him haste savoured of presumption. Ursula 
de Vesc was his good friend and comrade; could he 
hope for more than that in so short a time? In 
making haste might he not lose all he had gained? 
Besides, in the service and worship of the one dear 
woman in the world, a man is his own High Priest, 
and none save himself may enter into the Holy of 
Holies. And what could this peach-picker of Paris 
pavements know of such a Holy of Holies? Nothing, 
absolutely nothing. So he sat silent, doubly tongue- 
tied by doubt and reverence. 

But for these, Villon, who read his face with dis- 
concerting ease, had no great respect. 


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151 


“ Eh ! ’’ he said briskly, “ is the advice good ? ” 

“ Is good advice easy to follow ? ” 

“ Yes, when it is palatable, which is not often : com- 
monly it has a bitter taste in the swallowing. Or do 
you think it will be all the same fifty years hence? 
By all the Muses, there’s an idea! I must write 
the ‘Ballad of Fifty Years to Come.’ Let me see — 
let me see — ’m yes, the first verse might run like 
this : 

“ Where is La Mothe, that lover gay, 

Or Francois Villon, poet splendid 1 
Madonna of the eyes of grey, 

Or Charles whom Bertrand nearly ended ? 
D’Argenton, are his manners mended ? 

Or wisest Louis, swift to pardon 
Though so grievously offended ? 

Ask of the Scents of Amboise garden 1 

“ There ! ” and he drummed the empty mug on the 
flat of the table in mock applause which was not all 
unreal, “ what do you think of that for the first draft ? 
It does justice to me and to you, chronicles little 
Charles’ escape, kicks your Monsieur d’Argenton in 
passing, and takes off its hat to the King all in a 
breath.” 

“ Tear it up,” answered La Mothe. “ Will the 
King thank you for hinting he will be dead and 
forgotten fifty years hence? When you speak of 
Louis, you should always say, ‘O King, live for 
ever I ’ ” 

The drumming ceased, the gay laugh died out of 
Villon’s eyes, and he sat ruefully silent. To hint at 


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death to Louis, even remotely, was an unpardonable 
sin. 

“You are right,” he said at last, and said it with 
a sigh. “All the same, the idea is a good one, and 
ideas are scarcer than poetry and always will be. I 
have heard your verses, my young friend. Here is 
Saxe. Saxe, have you brought that third bottle ? To 
drink less than his average is a crime against a man’s 
thirst.” 

But Saxe was empty-handed. 

“Monsieur de Commines desires speech with Mon- 
sieur La Mothe in the Chateau garden.” 

“ Monsieur de Commines ? Bah I Go and be 
birched,” said Villon peevishly. The failure of his 
ballad had vexed him, and he was ready to vent his 
spleen on what lay nearest. “ You deserve it for your 
milk-and-water love-me-a-little-to-morrow. Had it 
been the old Paris days the Madonna lily would have 
said ‘ Come I ’ to Francois Villon in less than a week.” 

“Paris flowers do not grow in Amboise garden,” 
answered La Mothe, and added “ Thank God ! ” in 
his heart. 

Commines was standing at the entrance to an arch 
of roses which, pergola fashion, covered a sunny walk. 
On three sides rose the Chateau, grey and sullen, on 
the fourth was an enclosing wall. In shaded corners 
a few belated gillyflowers, straggling and overgrown, 
filled the air with perfume, but La Mothe’s gaze was 
caught by a group of Madonna lilies, slim and grace- 
ful, rising from a bed of purple fleurs-de-lis, their 
ivory buds new opened, and the recollection of Vil- 


THE JUSTICE 01^ THE KING 


153 


Ion’s comparison thrilled his imagination with its apt- 
ness. Grace for grace, beauty for beauty, in fulfilment 
and promise, they were Ursula de Vesc herself. 

But almost with his first sentence Commines proved 
that Villon had shrewd forethought as well as a poet’s 
eye for a fitting simile. 

“If it is not Mademoiselle de Vesc it is Francois 
Villon; if it is not philandering it is wine-bibbing,” 
he said harshly. “ Stephen, the King thinks you are 
wasting your time in Amboise and I think so too. 
What have you discovered in your ten days?” 

“All that there is to learn. Uncle.” 

“I see. That Ursula de Vesc has a pretty face? 
Stephen, Stephen, you are not in Amboise to play 
the fool.” 

La Mothe flushed and was about to answer angrily, 
but remembering that Commines spoke for the King 
rather than for himself he restrained his impatience. 

“ Uncle, is that just ? ” 

“ Well, what have you discovered ? ” 

“That there is no such vile scheme as the King 
imagines.” 

“ Can you prove that ? ” 

“ To me there is proof. Ten days ago, when the boy 
thanked me for pulling him off Bertrand’s back, he as 
much as said he had nothing to pay me with. Now if 
this lie of a plot against the King were the truth, 
would not a self-willed boy like the Dauphin, boastful 
as boys are, proud and galled by the debt he thought 
he owed me, have hinted that the day would come 
when he could pay in full, and sooner than some ex- 


154 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


pected ? He surely would. His pride would have run 
away with his discretion. Besides, Uncle, what have 
you discovered in your ten days ? ” 

But Commines returned no answer, and to La Mo the 
his gloomy face was inscrutable. He knew his master ; 
knew, without being told in so many words, that it was 
the King’s purpose to set Charles aside ; knew that the 
King believed justification for such a course was to be 
found at Amboise; knew above all, knew with the 
knowledge of other men’s bitter experience, that there 
were no thanks for the man who failed, even though 
that failure proved a son* innocent of crime against a 
father. It was not innocence the King desired but 
guilt. 

And yet, now that La Mothe had brought him face 
to face with the question, what had he discovered? 
Little or nothing. Using all the arts and artifices 
which ten years’ service under such a master of subtle 
craftiness as the eleventh Louis had taught him, he had 
cajoled and bribed, probed and sifted, even covertly 
threatened at times. But all to no purpose. An in- 
dignant sarcasm from Ursula de Vesc, a politic — and 
wise — regret for the estrangement from La Follette, a 
petulant outburst from Charles, childish and pathetic- 
ally cynical by turns, the vague whispers inseparable 
from such a household as was gathered together in 
Amboise were all his reward. But the King demanded 
proof ; the King demanded articles of conviction which 
would, if necessary, satisfy an incredulous world that 
the terrible tragedy which followed proof was the jus- 
tice of the highest law. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


155 


“ Disaffection is everywhere,” he said at last ; “ dis- 
loyalty which only lacks the spur of opportunity to 
drive desire into action. If these things are on the 
surface, worse lies hidden. You know the proverb of 
Smoke and Fire? I see the fire laid, I smell the 
smoke : it was for you to find the spark, you who have 
had a free hand in Amboise. But you play nonsense 
games with Charles, hanging upon the skirts of the 
unscrupulous woman who tutors him to revolt, or drink 
in taverns with a scurrilous thief turned spy to save 
his neck from a deserved hanging. Do you think you 
serve the King by philandering in a rose garden, or 
playing at French and English in the Burnt Mill? 
Francois Villon! Ursula de Vesc! Stephen, you 
make yourself too much one with them — an unhung 
footpad who prostitutes the powers of mind God gave 
him to the devil’s use, and a woman ” 

“Uncle, if even your father had spoken evil of 
Suzanne would you have listened to him?” 

“ Suzanne ? What has Suzanne in common with 
Ursula de Vesc?” 

“Only that I love her as you loved Suzanne,” an- 
swered La Mothe. 

“Ursula de Vesc? Stephen, at the least she is the 
King’s enemy.” 

“ Yes, he told me so himself.” 

“And at the worst ” 

“There is no worst,” said La Mothe doggedly. 
“There is no plot against the King, no plot at all.” 

“ And your proof is that when a clever woman bade 
a boy control his tongue he obeyed her! Will that 


156 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


convince Louis? Would it convince yourself but for 
this calf-love of yours ? Stephen, Stephen, you do not 
know the gulf on which you stand. What answer am 
I to return to the King?” 

“Uncle, is it my fault that I am living a lie in 
Amboise ? ” 

“ Grey Roland changed all that for you ten days ago. 
There was the game in your hands, and you threw it 
away I A touch of the heel, a single twitch of the 
bridle — there, there, say nothing : perhaps at your 
age I would have had the same scruples. But what 
answer am I to return to the King ? ” 

“ That I will do all he bade me ; do it with all my 
heart to the very letter,” answered La Mothe. And 
with that Commines had to be content. 

“You go too slow,” said Villon. “You go too fast,” 
said Commines. Between such cross fires what was a 
poor lover to do ? There was once. La Mothe remem- 
bered, a man who had an only son and an ass. But 
the problem is older than the imagination of any fabu- 
list, and as new as the newest day in the world. “ Thou 
shalt die,” said the Lord God. “ Thou shalt not surely 
die,” said the devil. 

“ I will take my own way,” he said. “ It is my life 
I have to live, not theirs.” And that afternoon came 
his opportunity to prove that a man knows best how 
his own life should be shaped. 


CHAPTER XVII 


STEPHEN LA MOTHE ASKS THE WRONG QUESTION 

Only the very foolish or the very weak man seeks 
to hide from his own soul the full, naked, unpalatable 
truth about himself. The fool follows the principle 
which governs the libel upon the intelligence of the 
ostrich, and vainly tries to persuade himself that what 
he does not see does not exist, while the weak man 
dares not open the doors of the cupboard hidden in 
every life for shivering terror of the secrets he knows 
are there. Wiser wickedness deliberately airs his 
skeleton now and then, and thereby the grisly pres- 
ence grows less grisly, and the hollow rattle of the 
bones less threatening. The articulation remains the 
same, but the tone, so to speak, is more subdued. 

And Stephen La Mothe, being neither a fool nor 
altogether weak, was not afraid to admit to himself 
that Commines’ angry contempt had described the 
day-by-day life at Amboise with sufficient accuracy, 
at least so far as the Dauphin and Ursula de Vesc 
were concerned. The bitter fling at his friendship for 
Villon did not trouble him. It was simply the high 
light added to the picture to bring out its general 
truth. 

Yes, he had played games of make-believe with the 
157 


158 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


boy, such as Louis had spoken of half in tolerance and 
half with the vexation of a clever father who resents 
that his only son is not as clever as himself. He had 
— no, he had not philandered in the rose garden. The 
associations of the word stirred him to revolt. Dairy- 
maids might philander, kitchen wenches and such-like 
common flesh might philander, but never Ursula of the 
grey eyes, Ursula of the tender, firm mouth. Ursula 
philander ? Never I never I The thought was dese- 
cration. What was it Louis had said? All women 
are the same under the skin. It was a cynic’s lie, 
and Louis had never known Ursula de Vesc. 

Lifting a lute he touched the strings lightly. He 
was in one of the smaller rooms of the Chateau, one the 
girl used more, almost, than any other, and little sug- 
gestions of her were scattered about it. On a bench 
was a piece of woman’s work with the threaded needle 
pushed through the stuff as when she laid it aside, 
flowers she had gathered were on the table, the portiere 
masking the door was her embroidery. Perhaps all 
these forced an association of ideas. Picking the strings 
out one by one half unconsciously, the air of the love 
song followed the shift of the hand, and equally uncon- 
sciously his voice took up the rhythm, first in an under- 
tone, then louder and louder : 

“ Heigh-ho ! Love is my sun, 

Love is my moon and the stars by night. 

Heigh-ho ! hour there is none, 

Love of my heart, but thou art my light ; 

Never forsaking, 

Noon or day-breaking. 

Midnights of sorrow thy comforts make bright. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


159 


Heigh-ho I Love is my life, 

Live I in loving and love I to live : 

Heigh-ho 1 ” 

“ Monsieur La Mothe, Monsieur La Mothe, have you 
deceived us all these days ? ” 

Down went the lute with a clang which jarred its 
every string into discord, and La Mothe sprang to his 
feet. 

“ Deceived you, mademoiselle ! How? ” 

“ That first night — I do not like to remember it even 
now, but Monsieur Villon told us you were both poet 
and singer, but you denied it. And now I hear you 
singing ” 

“Not singing, mademoiselle.” 

“Singing,” she persisted, with a pretty emphasis 
which La Mothe found very pleasant. “We shall have 
a new play to-night. A Court of High Justice, and 
Monsieur La Mothe arraigned for defrauding Amboise 
of a pleasure these ten days. I shall prosecute, Charles 
must be judge, and your sentence will be to sing every 
song you know.” 

“ Then I shall escape lightly ; I know so few.” 

“ There ! You have confessed, and your punishment 
must begin at once. Villon was right: Amboise is 
dull ; sing for me. Monsieur La Mothe.” 

“ But,” protested La Mothe, “ Villon was wrong as 
well as right in what he told you that night.” 

“ What ? A minstrel who wanders France with his 
knapsack and his lute and yet cannot sing ? ” If the 
raillery yet remained in the gay voice, it was a raillery 
which shifted its significance from pleasant badinage 


160 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


to something deeper, and the tender mouth which La 
Mothe was so sure could never lend itself to philander- 
ing lost its tenderness. More than once he had caught 
just such expression when the perilous ground of the 
relationships between father and son had been trodden 
upon in an attempt to justify the King. Then it had 
been impersonal, now he was reminded of his first night 
in Amboise, when her cold suspicion had been frankly 
unveiled. But the hardening of the face was only for 
a moment. “Truly, now,” she went on, “have you 
never made verses ? ” 

“Very bad ones, mademoiselle.” 

“ A poet tells the truth ! The skies will fall ! But 
perhaps it is not the truth; perhaps you are as unjust 
to your verses as you are to your singing.” Seating 
herself in a low chair, she looked up at him with a dan- 
gerous but unconscious kindness in her eyes. “Now 
sit there in that window-seat and let me judge. With 
the sun behind you you will look like Apollo with his 
lyre. No, not Apollo. Apollo was the sun itself. 
Why are men so much more difficult to duplicate in 
simile than women?” 

“ Not all women. I know one for whom there is no 
duplicate.” 

“A poet’s divine imagination!” 

“ A man’s reverent thankfulness.” 

The grey eyes kindled, and as the unconscious kindli- 
ness grew yet more kindly La Mothe told himself he 
had surely advanced a siege trench towards the de- 
fences. As to Ursula, she could not have told why 
these last days had been the pleasantest of her life. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


161 


and would have indignantly denied that Stephen La 
Mothe was in any way the cause. Women do not ad- 
mit such truths as openly as men, not even to them- 
selves. But Amboise was no longer dull, the rose 
garden no longer a mere relief from the greyness of the 
hours spent behind the grim walls which circled it. 
The sunshine was the same, the budding flowers were 
the same, the glorious shift from winter to summer, but 
they were the same with a difference, a difference she 
never paused to analyze. Spring — the spring of her 
life — had come upon her unawares. 

But a more acknowledged element in the pleasant 
comfort of these days had been a sense of support. 
One of the most corroding sorrows of life is to be 
lonely, alienated from sympathy and guidance, and in 
Amboise Ursula de Vesc had been very solitary. La 
Follette was politic, cautiously non-committal ; Hugues 
of a class apart; Commines an avowed opponent; 
Charles too young for companionship; Villon a con- 
tempt, and at times a loathing. Into this solitariness 
had come Stephen La Mothe, and the very reaction 
from acute suspicion had drawn her towards him. Re- 
pentance for an unmerited blame is much nearer akin 
to love than any depths of pity. Then to repentance 
was added gratitude, to gratitude admiration, and to 
all three propinquity. Blessed be propinquity I If 
Hymen ever raises an altar to his most devoted hand- 
maid it will be to the dear goddess Propinquity I Yes I 
these days had been very pleasant days. 

But an unfailing charm in a charming woman is that 
one can never tell what she will do next. Though the 


162 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


grey eyes kindled and the kindliness in them grew yet 
more kindly, though the soft embroideries in the deli- 
cate lawn were ruffled by a quicker breath, the natural 
perversity of her sex must needs answer perversely, 
and Ursula de Vesc blew up his siege trench with a 
bombshell. 

“Monsieur La Mothe, were you ever at Valmy? ” 

“ Yes, mademoiselle.” There was no shadow of hesi- 
tation in the reply, though the abrupt change of subject 
was as startling as the question itself. 

“ Of course. Music opens all doors. Monsieur La 
Mothe, I congratulate you.” 

“ That having been in Valmy I am now in Amboise ? ” 

“Upon better than that. Some day I may tell 
you.” 

“But this is the best possible, and I congratulate 
myself. No ! Good as this is, there is a better than 
the best ! Mademoiselle ” 

“ But you sing as well as make verses, do you not — 
you, whose music opened the gates even of Valmy? 
Indeed, I heard you just now. You are another Or- 
pheus, and Valmy a very similar interior. You don’t 
like me to say so? Very well, my lute is in your 
hand, and I am waiting. Did they teach you in Poitou 
to keep ladies waiting ? ” 

“ Poitou ? ” repeated La Mothe ; “ but I never said 
I had been in Poitou.” 

“ Oh ! but as a minstrel you wander everywhere, or 
— what was it? — as a poor gentleman seeing France, 
and so to Poitou. Anjou, Guienne, anywhere would 
do as well — except Flanders, where Monsieur de Com- 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


163 


mines comes from, and where I wish Monsieur de Corn- 
mines had remained,” she added. 

“You dislike Monsieur de Commines? Mademoi- 
selle, if you knew him better; how I wish you did. 
There was once a friendless boy — ” 

“Is this another fairy tale?” Though she inter- 
rupted him with so little ceremony, there was no as- 
perity in the voice. It was as if she said, “ Even good 
women have their limitations. I may forgive Philip 
de Commines, but you cannot expect me to praise 
him.” 

“ As true a story as the other.” 

“ And you believe in that other ? ” 

“ With all my heart.” 

“ Then why does the father not show himself 
fatherly ? ” 

“Is it not the part of the son to say, ‘Father, I 
have sinned ’ ? ” 

“ I see,” she said, some of the old bitterness creeping 
into her tone, “ the prodigal of twelve years old who 
is rioting in Amboise — you see how he riots — should 
ask forgiveness,” and as she spoke Stephen La Mothe, 
with a sudden sense of chill, remembered that other 
prodigal of twelve years old who was hung on the 
Valmy gallows that the roads of France might be safe. 
If Commines was right, the parallel was complete — 
horribly complete. But she gave him no time to dwell 
upon the coincidence. “ You put a heavy charge upon 
me,” she went on, the furrows deepening on her fore- 
head. “Would to God I could see what is best, what 
is right. I must think. I must think. Play to me. 


164 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


Monsieur La Mothe, but not too loudly, and do not 
call me rude if I do not listen. I know that must sound 
strange, but at times music helps me to think. Is it 
not so with you ?” 

The question was apologetic, and as such La Mothe 
understood it. He understood, too, the straits in which 
she found herself. So powerful was her influence over 
Charles, the boy would certainly act on her advice. 
Her knowledge of Stephen La Mothe was greater than 
he supposed. If he was right, and she held her peace, 
this breach between father and son would not only 
remain unhealed but would be widened by Louis’ 
natural resentment at the rejection of his covert over- 
tures; but if La Mothe was mistaken she knew the 
old King well enough to be certain that he would use 
the boy’s unwelcome advances against him in some 
cunning fashion. Which way lay wisdom? Or, as 
she had put it — raising the question to a higher plane 
— which was the right ? 

“If you please,” she said imperiously. “Yes, I mean 
it. Play David to the evil spirit of my doubt,” and 
with a laugh to cover his sense of embarrassment 
La Mothe obeyed, touching the instrument very softly. 

But she could not have told whether he played a 
drinking-song or a Miserere. With her, as with many, 
the quiet rhythm of the music stimulated thought, 
and gradually the perplexity cleared from her mind. 
Stephen La Mothe was not a fool, that counted for 
much. He was honest, that counted for much 
more. The King was notoriously ailing and, being 
superstitious, might well repent ; no high motive, but 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


165 


a probable one. Philip de Commines’ visit to Amboise 
was not by chance, and nothing less than his master’s 
orders would have kept him so long from Valmy. If 
Stephen La Mothe was right, then these orders must 
surely have a connection with the King’s changed dis- 
position towards the Dauphin. She would watch Com- 
mines, doing nothing hastily, and by his actions would 
shape her course. 

With the relaxation from concentrated thought the 
swing of the music’s rise and fall caught her ear. It 
was a ballad air, and new to her. Shifting her chair, 
she looked up at La Mothe as he bent over his instru- 
ment. Streaming through the windows behind him 
the cunning sunshine lit the brown of his hair to a red- 
gold. She had never seen just such a colour in a man, 
and the Apollo simile was not so unapt. 

“Sing,” she said suddenly, and again La Mothe 
obeyed, catching up the air almost unconsciously. 

“ Lilies White and Hoses Red, 

Gracious sweetness past compare, 

Beauty’s self to thee hath fled, 

Lilies White and Roses Red : 

Lover’s service bows its head, 

Awed by witchery so fair, 

Lilies White and Roses Red, 

Gracious sweetness past compare.” 

“Are they your own verses?” 

“No, I wish they were. I only think them.” 

Their eyes met for a moment, then she looked aside 
and there was silence. Her thoughts, or that brief 
glance — Apollo was a god, good to look upon — had 


166 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


SO warmed her checks that the refrain of the Triolet 
was almost justified. The lines of anxious care were 
smoothed from the forehead, and the half-smile of the 
new-drawn Cupid’s bow was a little tremulous. A sud- 
den determination moved La Mothe. Never had he 
seen her so gracious, so womanly, so completely the 
one sweet woman in all the world. Pushing the lute 
aside, he leaned forward. 

“ Mademoiselle,” he began earnestly, “ do you remem- 
ber ten days ago I said there was a question I would 
dare to ask you when you knew me better? ” 

“ I remember,” she said, turning a little from him 
that the light might not fall upon her face to betray 
her. She said she remembered, but the truth was that 
in the tumult of her thoughts the recollection was 
vague. “Yes, I think I know you better.” 

“It is a very bold question, and one which might 
well offend. And yet you know I would not willingly 
offend you ? ” 

“Yes, I am sure of that.” The rustling of the lawn 
and laces on her breast was a little more tempestuous, 
but the voice was very level, very quiet. As to Ste- 
phen La Mothe, he felt that earth and sun and stars 
had disappeared and they two alone were left out of all 
the world. 

“ So bold, so presumptuous,” he went on, “ that it is 
hard to find words at all. But you forgive me in ad- 
vance ? ” 

At that she smiled a little. She did not think there 
would be much need for pardon. Was there any ques- 
tion Apollo — Stephen La Mothe, that is — might not 


THE JUSTICE OP THE KING 167 

ask? She knew now why these ten days had been the 
happiest of her life. 

“ Yes, Monsieur La Mothe, you are forgiven before- 
hand.” 

“ Then — is there any plot in Amboise against the 
King ? From you a simple ‘ no ’ is enough. I ask no 
proof, a simple word, nothing more.” 

Unconsciously he had forced a pleading into his voice, 
an urging, as if it was not so much the truth he sought 
as a denial at all costs; but as she turned in her chair, 
rising as she turned so that she looked down upon him, 
he broke off. It would have taken a much bolder man 
than Stephen La Mothe to have maintained his covert 
accusation — and what else was it ? — in the face of the 
angry surprise which needed no expression in words. 

“ Was that your question ? You have spied upon us 
all these days — suspected us — accused us in your 
thoughts ? You have pretended friendship, devotion — 
God knows what monstrous lie — and all the while you 
spied — spied. But you shall have your answer in 
your single word. No, Monsieur La Mothe; such women 
as I am do not plot against their King, nor teach sons 
to revolt against their fathers.” 

“ Mademoiselle ” he began. 

But not even the scornful indignation vouchsafed 
him a second glance as she swept past him without a 
word. At the door she paused and, half turning, looked 
back across her shoulder, a spot of scarlet on either 
cheek. 

“ I had forgotten my message. I had already told 
Jean Saxe, in case I failed to find you. The Dauphin 


168 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


bids you join him at the Burnt Mill at three o’clock; 
but if it were not that the Dauphin’s word is a com- 
mand, even to you I would say be otherwise engaged, 
Monsieur La Mothe, since I must be of the party.” 

“But, Mademoiselle ” 

He spoke to an empty room, and if Ursula de Vesc 
closed the door between them with a greater vigour 
than the politeness strict deportment demanded she 
may surely be excused. It may be that even the angels 
lose their tempers at times over the follies of a blind 
humanity. 

As to Stephen La Mothe, he stood staring at the 
closed door as if he were not only alone in the room 
but in the very world itself; or, rather, as if the world 
had suddenly dropped from under his feet and the shock 
bewildered him. She had been so gracious, so very 
sweet and gracious. He had been forgiven in advance; 
why such bitter offence ? A single word was all he had 
asked — one little word. Then he flushed all over with 
a peculiar pricking sensation down the spine. Could 
it be that she expected a very different question; one 
whose answer might have been a Yes ? If that were so 
— but it was absurd, and he called himself many hard 
names for having such an idea a single moment. To 
have thought such a thought of Ursula de Vesc was as 
preposterous as saying she would philander in a rose 
garden. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


FRENCH AND ENGLISH 

Before the coming of the Maid, that is to say more 
than fifty years before Stephen La Mothe gave himself 
the heartache over his misreadings of the most read 
chapter in the book of nature, there stood upon the 
banks of the Loire, about a mile from lAmboise, the 
flour mill of one Jean Cal vet. For six generations it 
had passed from a Calvet to a Calvet, son succeeding 
father as Amurath an Amurath, and the Moulin Fleche 
d’Or was as well known to the countryside as Amboise 
itself. The kirkyard or the grinding stones ; human- 
ity must needs find its way to both. 

When harvests were fat, and corn plentiful, its stones 
hummed from daylight to dark to the blent music of the 
creaking wheel and the splash-splash of the water which 
drove it. In lean years, when war or famine was abroad, 
and thanks to England these years were not few, the 
sluice was lifted, and in place of the hoarse murmur and 
complaint of the grinding stones and lumbering wheel 
there was the soft purr of the millrace, and the Calvet 
of his generation lived, like a turtle, on his own fat, 
waiting for better days. And sooner or later these al- 
ways came, and with their coming grew the prosperity 
of the Golden Arrow. Corn and the human heart must 
169 


170 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


needs be ground while the world lasts, and perhaps it 
is as much out of the grinding of the latter as the for- 
mer that life is strengthened. Then came a day which 
brought an end to more than the prosperity of Jean 
Calvet the sixth. 

Some clocks wear out, running down with little 
spurts of life and longer intervals of dumbness ; others 
end with a sudden crashing of the pendulum while in 
its full swing, and a wild, convulsive whirr of the 
jarred wheels. One moment the sober tick tells that 
all is well, the next — silence. So was it with Cal vet’s 
mill. 

In the fortune, or misfortune, of war an Englishman, 
one Sir John Stone, riding that way with his band of 
marauders, little better than licensed brigands, found 
Amboise too tough a nut for his teeth, and harried the 
Calvets in pure wantonness. Over the tree-tops the 
garrison of Amboise could see the smoke of the burning, 
but they were too weak to venture succour. 

Calvet must fend for himself lest Calvet and Amboise 
both end in the one ruin. There was little defence, but 
that little was grimly in earnest and yet more grim the 
revenge of the attack. For that generation both pity 
and mercy had fled France. J ean Calvet the younger, 
he who should have been the seventh of his line, was 
coursed in the open like a hare, but turned at the last 
and died at bay as a wolf dies. Behind the barred door 
were Jean the sixth, his two younger sons, and the dead 
man’s wife. The woman, grey-faced but tearless, 
fought as the men fought, using her Jean’s cross-bow 
from the narrow upper windows. All that rage, desper- 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


171 


ation, and hate could do was done, and when the door 
fell in with a crash Jean the younger had been avenged 
four times over. John Stone took as little by his 
wantonness as he deserved. 

Then came the end. There was a rush up the stone 
stairway, a brief struggle to gain the upper level, a 
minute’s surging back and forth, a briefer, fiercer fury 
of strife among the cranks and meal-bags, a few rough 
oaths, a woman’s scream, and then silence, or what by 
contrast passed for silence, since the sudden quiet was 
only broken by deep breathing and the sucking of air 
into dry throats. England had gained an ignoble 
victory. 

Fire followed as naturally as the spark follows the 
jar of flint and steel, and with a hundred and fifty years 
to dry its beams, its cobwebbed walls hung with mouldy 
dust from the grinding of as many harvests, its complex 
wooden troughs and grain-shoots parched to tinder, the 
old mill was a ready prey. All that could burn burnt 
like a pile of dry shavings. But the walls, the stair- 
way, and the upper floor were of stone, and stood ; and 
but for one thing the peace which followed the coming of 
the Maid might have set the waterwheel creaking afresh. 
That one thing, typical of the times, forbade the 
thought. When the men of Amboise cleared away the 
rubbish they found the bones of Jean Calvet the sixth 
piled in a grim derision upon his own millstones, and 
so these stones never turned again. Who could eat 
bread of their making ? 

But the blackened shell was one of the Dauphin’s 
favourite haunts, nor could a better stage for one of 


172 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


those plays of make-believe which had called down the 
old King’s bitter irony have been well devised. So far 
as possible the mill had been restored to its old condi- 
tion. The rubbish had been cleared from the ancient 
watercourse ; the tough old wheel, freed from the 
weeds and soil which bound it, was set running as in 
the past, and a palisade of stout pickets erected to 
fence out the curious. The side furthest from the 
roadway, with its clumps of hazels, alder thicket, and 
chestnut wood in the distance was left open. Here, 
amid surroundings which lent a sombre realism to the 
pretence, Charlemagne could carve out a kingdom, 
Roland sound the horn of Roncesvalles, or the Maid 
herself win back to France the crown the boy’s fore- 
father had lost. 

But, dearer even than these, he best loved to repro- 
duce in little the tragedy which had laid the mill 
desolate, and it was La Mothe’s participation in that 
mock combat which had aroused Commines’ contempt. 
What boy of imagination has not revelled in such 
sport, living a glorious hour beyond his age ? And 
not a few of every nation have, in their turn, made the 
glory real at the call of the country that the blood of 
new generations may take fire. And Stephen La 
Mothe saw no shame in such a play; saw, rather, a 
stimulus and an uplifting whose effects might not alto- 
gether pass away when the play ended. So he was 
France or England as the Dauphin bade him, and by 
turns died valiantly or fought victoriously. 

But chiefly, and to La Mothe it had its significance, 
the Dauphin played the part of Jean Calvet. All chil- 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


173 


dren, and not children only, love to be upon the win- 
ning side, and it told something of the trend of the 
boy’s deeper nature that he would rather die for France 
than live for England. So would it have been the 
afternoon of the day La Mothe had followed his own 
course to his own disaster had not Charles once more 
proved the truth of Villon’s observation. The dull 
eyes saw more than men supposed. 

“You and Ursula have quarrelled,” he said, with 
all a boy’s blunt power of making the truth a terror. 
“All the way from Amboise you have not spoken a 
word to each other ; and you will quarrel still more if 
I shut you up in the mill together. Do you be Stone, 
with Blaise and Marcel, while I and Monsieur La FoL 
lette and Hugues will keep the stairs.” Then a gleam 
of unaccustomed humour flickered across his face ; a 
sense of humour was rarely a Valois characteristic. 
“No, I am wrong. Do you be Cal vet; I want a real 
battle to-day, and you will fight all the better with 
Ursula looking on.” As for Ursula de Vesc, she drew 
her skirts together and ran up the unprotected flight 
of stairs humming an air — not Stephen La Mothe’s 
triolet, you may be sure — as if she had not a care in 
the world. 

So the forces arrayed themselves, Charles and the 
two lads from the stables behind the clump of bushes 
which always served as an ambush, and La Mothe at 
the doorless entrance to the mill, where he was to give 
the alarm and then retreat to the upper floor where La 
Follette and Hugues were posted. La Follette, who 
had been a lover in his day, would have kept watch 


174 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


below and taken Hugues with him, but Ursula de Vesc, 
in the upper room, told them tartly that the Dauphin 
would be displeased if the usual plan were departed 
from, and so, in no very playful humour any of them, 
they waited the attack. 

Presently it came. Out from his ambush, a hundred 
yards away, raced the Dauphin, Marcel and Blaise at 
his heels, their stout wooden swords bared for the grim 
work of slaughter. “ The English ! the English ! ” 
shouted La Mothe. “ Frenchmen, the enemy are upon 
us I ” But as he turned to gain the upper floor there 
came a cry which was not part of the play, a cry of 
fear and despairing rage, “ The Dauphin ! the Dauphin I 
Monsieur La Mothe, save the Dauphin,’’ and midway 
on the stairs Hugues dashed past him. 

“ Hugues, what is it?” 

“An ambush. The Dauphin; they will murder the 

Dauphin ” and Hugues was through the doorway 

with La Mothe and La Follette following, and Ursula 
de Vesc, white and trembling, at the stair-head, more in 
surprise than any realization of danger. But only for 
an instant, then she ran to the narrow window where 
Hugues had waited, watching. 

Midway from their hiding-place, confused by the sud- 
den outcry, stood the Dauphin and the two lads, and 
towards them ran Hugues with all his speed. La Mothe 
not far behind. La Follette waited at the door, uncer- 
tain and bewildered. But from a further covert, the 
thicket of more distant alder, a troop of ten or a dozen 
horsemen had burst, galloping at the charge, nor could 
there be any doubt of their sinister purpose. It was a 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


175 


race for the boy, with the greater distance to neutralize 
the greater speed, but they rode desperately, recklessly, 
as men who ride for their lives. 

“ Run, Monseigneur, run,” cried Hugues, panting. 
“ See, behind — behind,” and almost as he shouted the 
words he and La Mothe, younger and more active, 
reached the group. “ Out of the way, fools,” he gasped, 
shouldering the stable lads aside; then to La Mothe, 
“ Take the other arm,” and again there was a race of 
desperation, but this time with the mill as the goal. 
Nearer and nearer thundered the hoofs, out from his 
scattered following forged their leader, his spurs red to 
the heel, his teeth set hard in the shadow of the mask 
which hid his face. “ Faster, for God’s sake faster,” 
groaned Hugues. “ Faster, faster,” shouted La Follette 
from the doorway, and Ursula de Vesc, at her point of 
vantage, hardly dared to breathe as she knit her hands 
so closely the one into the other that the fingers cramped. 
Then the chase passed out of sight, and she ran to the 
stair-head, waiting for she knew not what. It was just 
there that Calvet the younger had died, and now there 
was as little mockery in the tragedy. Beyond the door- 
way she heard a “Thank God!” from La Follette, then 
shadows darkened it, and the Dauphin was thrust in, 
staggering. On the instant La Follette followed, paused, 
glancing backward as if in hesitation. But one duty 
was imperative. Catching the boy in his arms, he half 
carried, half forced him up the stairway, while in the 
open space below La Mothe and Hugues, letting Blaise 
and Marcel slip between them, turned side by side 
to face whatever was without. What that was she 


176 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


knew, and as she watched him in the gap an instant, 
before hastening to the Dauphin’s aid, the girl’s heart 
went out to Stephen La Mothe in the agony of a bitter 
repentance. If death pays all debts surely the darken- 
ing of the shadows brings forgiveness for all offences ? 


CHAPTER XIX 


GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN 

But meanwhile there was a pause. Below, in the 
defenceless doorway, Hugues and La Mothe stood 
shoulder to shoulder for one of those fiery instants 
which try a man’s nerve rather than his courage. For 
the moment the Dauphin was saved. But they had no 
illusions. It was only for the moment, and both knew 
that in the moment to follow the danger would not be 
for the Dauphin alone. But only one, Stephen La 
Mothe, gave that a thought, and it was not for himself. 
Ursula de Vesc? The masked scoundrel who, panting 
with the rage of disappointment, faced them three yards 
away, one hand still gripping the reins of the horse by 
whose head he stood, the other a naked sword, had his 
half-score of cut-throats behind him, and could afford 
to leave no witness to his outrage. There would be no 
pity for Ursula de Vesc. 

“ Damnation,” cried La Mothe almost in a sob, and, 
forgetting that he, too, wore a sword, he would have 
sprung upon him barehanded in his despair had not 
Hugues forced him to keep his place. 

“Not yet,” he whispered. “Wait; perhaps — later 
N 177 


178 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


” and the moment of possibility had passed. The 

troop was upon them. 

But their leader held them back. 

“Wait,” he said in his turn. “We may save time. 
Be wise, and give us the Dauphin. We are a dozen, 
you only three or four. We are sure to have him in 
the end.” 

“On what terms?” It was Hugues who answered. 

“ Terms ? ” cried La Mothe. “ Hugues, there can be 
no terms.” 

“Your pardon, Monsieur La Mothe,” said Hugues. 
“ You are a gentleman, but I am only a servant,” and 
in his excitement La Mothe never paused to ask himself 
why Hugues should so classify a hedge minstrel of the 
Duchy of Lackeverything. “It is a fine thing, no 
doubt, to die for your honour, but what have I to do 
with honour ? Life is life. The boy, on what terms ? ” 

“Your lives. And you gain nothing by refusing. 
The boy is ours in any case.” 

“Never,” said La Mothe, struggling to shake off the 
restraining hand that pinned him, helpless, half behind 
the doorpost. “Never while I live.” 

“Just so,” answered Hugues, tightening his grasp ; 
“ not while you live. But afterwards ? and what better 
are we then, or the Dauphin either? Give me three 
minutes, monsieur, to persuade him, just three minutes,” 
and in La Mothe’s ear he whispered, “For God’s sake 
be quiet or you will ruin us all.” 

“ Three minutes ? Play me no tricks, my man.” 

“ But, monsieur,” and Hugues’ voice was a whine as 
bespoke. “ What trick is possible ? You are a dozen. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


179 


we three or four. And are we not caught like rats in 
a pit ? ” 

“ Like rats ! You have said the word ! Take your 
three minutes, rat, and don’t forget that like rats we’ll 
kill you.” 

Urging his point vehemently, pleadingly, and with 
every plausible argument at his command, but never 
slackening his grip, Hugues drew La Mothe a yard or 
two into the blackened ruin. There he held him with 
a wary eye to a possible surprise. Blaise and Marcel 
were on the upper floor and only La Follette was in 
sight, standing guard at the stair-head. 

“Listen,” he said. “Monseigneur is dearer to me 
than to you. Do you think I would give up one hair 
of him while I live, I, who sleep at his door of nights ? 
Never, not one hair! But between us we may save 
him yet. Shake your head, curse me for a coward, for 
a scoundrel, try to throw me off, strike me if you like. 
Yes, yes,” he insisted, raising his voice, “it is our lives ; 
why lose our lives for nothing ? ” Then, in a whisper, 
“ They will give the alarm from the fields ; it is only a 
mile to Amboise ” 

“But it is a mile — a mile to go, a mile to come 
back ” 

“It is the one chance,” answered Hugues loudly, 
fawning on La Mothe with a hand which aped per- 
suasion. The words had a double meaning and held 
La Follette quiet. La Follette who might have ruined 
all through incomprehension. “ You know the bench 
where Mademoiselle sits to watch the play ? When I 
cry Now ! rush up and fling it across the gap of the 


180 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


stair-head. It will hold them back for a time. Then, 
for God’s sake, Monsieur La Mothe, fight, fight, fight. 
Fight to the last. It is for life, it is for France, it is 
for Mademoiselle.” 

“ And you ? ” 

“ I will hold the door.” 

“ But that is death.” 

“ It will give you a minute, or two, or three.” 

“ Then it is my place ; I have a sword.” 

“I love him best,” answered Hugues. To him it 
was the one unanswerable argument ; he loved him 
best, and love had the right to die for love’s sake. 
“You understand? When I cry Now! run — run.” 

“ Hugues, Hugues, let me ” 

“ Do you think a valet cannot love ? ” 

“ It is time,” said a voice from without. “ Are you 
ready, rats ? ” 

“Yes, monsieur, yes, yes. I have him persuaded. 
Just one little moment. Monsieur La Mothe, Now! 
Now ! ” 

“ No, Hugues, no, let me ” 

“Damn you, man, would you murder the Dauphin 
for a scruple ? Now ! I say. Now ! ” 

“ I have a sword ” 

But Hugues had caught up the slender cudgel 
dropped by Marcel in his flight for the stairs and 
was already in the doorway. 

“ If you want the Dauphin, come and take him. 
God save the Dauphin ! France ! France ! ” and 
drawing a deep breath he stood on guard, one wooden 
sword against a dozen of steel. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


181 


“Bravo, Hugues,” cried La Follette from above. 
“ Hold the scoundrels while you can, and God be with 
you. Come, La Mothe, come, come.” 

And what could La Mothe do but obey ? For a mo- 
ment he glanced this way and that, uncertain, drawn 
to the one man who stood alone against such odds, yet 
knowing that to aid him was the surest way to make 
Hugues’ sacrifice unavailing. Then he jumped for the 
stairs ; but not before the doorway was darkened ; not 
before he heard the dull clash of steel upon wood ; not 
before Hugues had stifled a cry which told that the 
offering up of the sacrifice had begun. 

And as it began so it ended. But how desperately 
the breach was held, how desperately Hugues fought 
with his mockery of a sword, with his bare hands, with 
his very breast, they could only guess when he was 
found later with the staff in splinters, his palms and 
arms hacked and gashed, his bosom agape with dumb 
mouths which told their tale of love and splendid 
courage lavished to the utmost. He died with all his 
wounds in front ; he died for loyalty, for love’s sake, 
giving his life without a grudge. Could a Roland or a 
Charlemagne have done more ? 

Reaching forward La Follette seized La Mothe, 
dragging him up the last three stairs. “ Draw, man, 
draw, we will fight them here.” But La Mothe shook 
him off. 

“This first,” he said, and catching up the broad, 
unbacked bench which day by day had served Ursula 
de Vesc as a resting-place he flung it, flat downwards, 
across the railless stair-head. “ It’s done, Hugues, and 


182 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


never fear but we’ll fight,” he cried, offering the only 
comfort he could to the man who, down below, gave his 
life for them all. “Now, Follette, I am ready.” 

But Hugues still held the door, and for the first time 
La Mothe had leisure to look round him. In the back- 
ground were Blaise and Marcel — barehanded, silent, 
helpless. The younger, Marcel, was crying openly but 
dumbly, the tears running unheeded and unwiped down 
his cheeks ; the other, dogged and dour, with teeth and 
fists clenched, was of braver stuff, a fighter, but with- 
out a weapon. Midway, still exhausted from his flight, 
Charles lay on his elbow, propped against Ursula de 
Vesc, who stooped above him with one arm round his 
shoulders as support. The boy’s long narrow face was 
paler beyond his natural pallor, but his mouth was 
firm-set, his eyes bright and dry. The girl’s features 
were hidden, and Stephen La Mothe was not sure 
whether he was glad or sorry. To have read coldness 
or reproach in her eyes at such a time would have been 
bitter indeed. 

It was but a glance, then La Follette touched his 
arm. Down below there was no longer the rasp of 
steel on wood. Hugues was fighting now barehanded, 
but he had been better than his word — the three min- 
utes had been prolonged to four. Then came a cry, 
“Ah, God I ” and La Mothe heard Ursula de Vesc sob. 
For a moment she looked up and their glances met, but 
there was little time to read her message, little time to 
see anything but the pain in the grey eyes. A rush of 
feet on the stairs called him, and side by side with 
La Follette he bent across the well. The bench half 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


183 


covered the opening, but there were slits of a foot or 
more wide at either edge, opening the way for attack. 

But the rush ceased almost as soon as it began. 
This new obstacle was unlocked for, and between the 
slits those above could see the savagely passionate faces 
of the besiegers staring up at them. Then one, bolder 
or more enterprising than the rest, crept up cautiously 
step by step, measuring his distance as he advanced. 

“ Cover me,” he said to the next lower. “ Strike at 
whatever shows itself,” and thrust blindly upwards. It 
was their first sight of bare steel, and Ursula de Vesc 
drew in her breath with a shiver as she saw the red 
smear upon its flat. “ Oh ! Hugues, Hugues,” she 
moaned, and the Dauphin, catching at her hand with 
both his, shrank closer. 

“ Damnation ! ” cried La Mothe, striking fiercely at 
the blade as it darted from side to side or sawed back 
and forth. But when he would have struck a second 
time La Follette curtly forbade him. 

“You may break your sword, and he can do no harm 
from where he is.” 

So they discovered for themselves, and the foremost 
crept yet a step higher. But when he struck afresh La 
Follette, lunging aslant and downwards, caught him 
below the wrist. With a curse he let the blade fall clat- 
tering, and there was a pause. But if he were bolder, 
those behind had not been idle. A voice from the back- 
ground cried out to clear the steps, and before those 
above understood the altered tactics a picket, drawn 
from the palisade, was thrust between the bench and the 
wall. It was La Foil te who first grasped the danger. 

! 


184 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“Blaise — Marcel!” he cried. “Here on the bench 
both of you and hold it down.” 

But only one answered the call. Marcel was on his 
knees in the corner praying for the miracle which should 
be his own handiwork, not the first man nor the last who 
has called on God to bear the burden his own shoulder 
refuses. Blaise was of better stuff. “Here I am, mon- 
sieur,” he cried, but before he could bring his weight to 
bear a second picket, sharpened at the point, was rammed 
up and forward with two men’s strength, driving the 
bench aslant till its end dipped and it fell with a crash, 
scattering those below, but with little hurt. The way 
was open, but Hugues’ foresight had added five minutes 
to the four. 

“For the Lord’s sake,” cried Blaise, staring into the 
welter below, “give me something in my bare hand. 
Rats, he called us, rats, and I won’t die like a rat, I 
won’t, I won’t.” It was the cry of primitive nature and 
the Dauphin answered it. 

“ Here,” said he, rising on his knees as he unbuckled 
his own small sword. “You are stronger than I am. 
Be a man, Blaise.” 

“You’ll see. Monseigneur, you’ll see. Come up, 
you curs, come up. Rats, you said? Come up and 
meet a man.” 

“Three men,” said Mademoiselle. “Monsieur La 
Mothe, is there nothing I can do?” 

“Nothing, mademoiselle,” he answered, and turning 
met her eyes with a smile. He knew he was forgiven, 
and thanked Hugues in his hear| that he had lived so 
long. But for Hugues he woul ^have died at the door, 

I 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


185 


died in ignorance. The comfort was the dead man’s 
gift to him, and now, in the paradox of nature, because 
of that comfort it would not be so hard to follow him. 

But if to die comforted would be less hard, there was 
something much more than comfort to live for, and to 
La Mothe the odds did not seem utterly hopeless. 
Three resolute men could surely hold the well hole till 
succour came. Resolute ? Much more than resolute 
— desperate. Again he glanced aside at Ursula de Vesc. 
Had he not the best cause the world holds to be resolute 
to desperation? Hugues had died for love’s sake, please 
God he would live for it. 


CHAPTER XX 


THE LAST STAND 

Below the attack halted, but up the stairway came 
the noise of rough laughter and rougher words, words 
which made Stephen La Mothe’s blood grow hot and 
his nerves tingle as, gritting his teeth, he stamped his 
feet so that the girl might not hear them also. Reso- 
lute ? Desperate ? Yes, much more than resolute, 
much more than desperate, and with much more than a 
man’s life to be lost. And all were of one mind. Follette 
he was sure of, and at his right Blaise, the stable-lad, 
panted in short breaths, swinging his unaccustomed 
weapon softly. “ Damn them ! ” La Mothe heard him 
say. “Will they never come?” and when the nine 
minutes had crawled to twelve they came. 

But not with a rush, not as those above had reckoned. 
The siege had grown cautious. This time there was a 
system. Up, on the very edge of the steps, broad, 
wide, and shallow for the easier carrying of heavy loads 
upon the back, came the two with the palisades, up, 
until the pickets were a full yard through the well- 
hole, but with those who held them out of reach, and 
with a shout, the wood rasping the ancient flagging, 
each swept a quarter circle. It was the work of an 
instant. As the pickets crashed against the wall the 
voice from behind cried, “ Now lads I ” and the rush 
186 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


187 


came. There was the clang of iron-shod feet on the 
stones, a glimmer in the half obscurity, and behind the 
pickets the stairway bristled with steel. 

“ Praises be ! ” cried Blaise, and crouched on his 
heels. Down he leaned, down, forward, and lunged 
clumsily. That, too, was the work of an instant, an 
act concurrent with his cry, but when he straightened 
himself a picket had dropped into the gloom, and he 
who held it lay upon it, coughing and choking. 
“Rats!” said Blaise, slashing viciously at the blade 
nearest him. “ Dieu ! but the rat bit the cur dog that 
time I Come on, you curs.” 

And the rats had need to bite. The well-hole was 
double-lined; those in front fought upward, while those 
behind protected them and stole a step higher if the 
defence slackened. Nice play of fence there was none. 
In such a packed confusion the brute strength of Blaise 
the stableman counted for more than the finest skill of 
fence in the world. And with the brute’s strength he 
seemed to have the brute’s indifference to pain. Twice, 
stooping low, he parried with his arm, taking the slash 
with a gasp but thrusting as he took it, and each thrust 
struck home. But those behind filled the gaps, those 
below pressed upward stair by stair, and La Mothe, 
breathless, but without a scratch, knew what it was to 
be blood-drunken as the din of steel filled his ears and 
he saw the flushed and staring faces opposite rise min- 
ute by minute more level with his own. The three 
were doing all men could dare or do, but the end was 
nearer and nearer with every breath. The end I God 
in heaven! No! not that — not that; and in his 


188 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


drunkenness he dashed a thrust aside as Blaise had 
done, stabbed as Blaise had stabbed, and laughed 
drunkenly that he had sent a soul to its Maker with all 
the passions of lust and murder hot upon it ; but hap- 
pier than Blaise he took no hurt. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said La Follette without turning 
his head, and speaking softly to save his breath, “ go 
you and Monseigneur to the corner behind me,” and 
La Mothe knew that he too saw the coming of the end. 
There in the corner, with Love and France behind them, 
they would make their last stand. 

“ I have Monseigneur’s dagger,” she answered. 
Again La Mothe understood the inference left un- 
spoken, understood that she as well as he had heard 
the brutal jests which had set his blood boiling. That 
she had the dagger was a comfort ; but what a splendid 
courage was hers. Marcel had even ceased to pray. 

For very life’s sake La Mothe dared abate the 
vigilance of neither eye nor hand, and yet by instinct 
— there was no sound — he knew they had risen to 
obey. By instinct, too, he knew that Ursula de Vesc 
had drawn nearer, and it was no surprise to hear her 
voice behind him. But it was not to him she spoke. 

“ Now, Blaise, thrust, thrust ! ” 

There was a rip of torn cloth, a flutter in the air — 
the flutter as of a bird on the wing — an upturned point 
was caught in a tangle of white linen, and through the 
tangle Blaise rammed his sword-blade almost to the hilt 
and laughed, panting. 

“ Rats ! ” he cried, tugging his arm backwards with 
a horrible jerk. “ Go to your hole, cur ! ” and more 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


189 


blood-drunken even than La Mothe he broke into a 
village song. 

“ ‘ Rosalie was soft and sweet ; 

Sweet to kiss, sweet to kiss : 

Hair and mouth and cheek and feet, 

Sweet to kiss, sweet to kiss.* 

“ Mademoiselle, fling in that praying lout from the 
corner and make some use of him ; it’s all he’s fit for.” 

But the gap was filled ; there were two on the top- 
most step, and La Follette, not only wounded in the 
thigh but slashed across the ribs, was giving ground. 

“ Be ready. La Mothe,” he said. His teeth were 
clenched and his chest laboured heavily. “ Be ready, 
Blaise.” 

“ Ready,” answered La Mothe, saving his breath. 
His heart was very bitter. The twelve minutes were 
seventeen, succour could not be far off, but -the end had 
come. “ Do you hear, Blaise ? ” 

But Blaise was past hearing. While he fought 
with his right his maimed left hand, cut to the bones, 
had torn his smock open from the throat, and the hairy 
chest, smeared with his blood, glistened in broad drops 
from the sweat of his labours. In such a hilt-to-hilt 
struggle his ignorance was almost an advantage. He 
had nothing to unlearn, no rules of fence to disregard, 
and his peasant’s strength of arm whirled aside an 
attack with a paralyzing power impossible to any skill. 
Right, left, downward swept the blade, his knees and 
hips half bent as he leaned forward, crouching, his left 
arm swinging as he swayed. Right, left, downward, 
his blood-drunkenness growing in savage abandonment 


190 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


with every minute. Yes, he was ready — ready in his 
own way — but past hearing. 

“ Damn the English,” was his answer to La Mothe, 
his mind back in the fifty-year-old tragedy. The play 
was no make-believe, and he was Michel Calvet, son to 
Jean the sixth, the Michel whose elder brother had been 
coursed like a hare and killed in the open. Then his 
song rose afresh, but gaspingly, raucously, as if the 
notes tore his chest. 

“ ‘ Rosalie, I love you true ; 

Kiss me, sweet, kiss me, sweet. 

Lov’st thou me as I love you ? 

Kiss me, sweet, kiss me, sweet.* 

“ Rats,” said he I “ Come up, y’ cur dogs, come up.” 

“La Mothe,” breathed La Follette, “when I say 
Now I ” 

Yes, the end had come. 

“Damn the English,” cried Blaise hoarsely. With 
a mighty stroke he swept aside the opposing points, 
drew a choking breath, crouched lower, and, with the 
Dauphin’s sword at the charge, he flung himself into 
the gap breast-forward, missed his thrust, splintered 
the blade against the wall, and with a wild clutch drew 
all within reach into his grip. For an instant they 
hung upon a stair-edge, then, in a writhing, floundering 
mass, breast to breast, breathless, half dead or dying, 
they rolled to the floor. From behind La Mothe heard 
Ursula de Vesc cry, “Oh God! pity him I ” in a sob. 
But he dared not turn, his own blood-drunkenness fired 
him to the finger-tips and he lunged furiously, getting 
home a stroke above a point lowered in the surprise. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


191 


Again there was a rush of iron-shod feet upon the 
stones, but a rush downward, a moment’s pause below, 
a crossing babel of passionate, clamouriug voices, insist- 
ence, denial, and yet more denial, then a silence — or 
what seemed a silence — a few hoarse whispers and a 
cry or two of pain. Yes, the end had come. In the 
corner stood the Dauphin and, half in front, Ursula de 
Vesc, her arm stretched out across his breast in the old 
attitude of protection. Marcel lay beside them in a 
faint. 

“ Hugues? ” There was a question and a cry in the 
boy’s one word. 

“Charles, Charles, have you nothing to say to the 
brave men who almost died for you ? ” 

“ Hugues loved me,” he answered, and at the bitter 
pathos of the reply La Mothe forgot the ingratitude. 
There were so few who loved him. But the girl could 
not forget. 

“Monsieur La Follette, Monsieur La Mothe,” she 
began, but broke off with a cry. “ Oh, Monsieur La 
Follette, you are wounded? What can I do? Words 
can come afterwards, and all my life I will remember, 
all my life. Are you dreadfully hurt ? Can I not do 
something ? ” But though she spoke to La Follette her 
eyes, after the first glance, were busy searching Stephen 
La Mothe for just such an ominous stain as showed in 
brown patches upon La Follette. But there was none. 
Breathless, dishevelled, his clothing slashed, he was 
without a scratch, and the strained anxiety faded from 
her face. 

“I can wait,” answered La Follette, “we must get 


192 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


the Dauphin to the Chateau. La Mothe, see if they 
are gone,” and he glanced significantly down the stair- 
way. La Follette knew something of war, and there 
must be sights below it were better Ursula de Vesc 
should not see lest they haunt her all her life, sleeping 
or waking. 

But the Dauphin, his nerves strained and raw, had 
grown petulant. 

“ It is safe enough. I heard them ride off. I want 
Hugues. I want Hugues.” 

“ And Blaise?” 

“ Oh I Blaise I ” He broke into a discordant laugh. 
“ I told him to be a man and, my faith ! he was one. 
Do you think, Ursula, that Father John will ask my 
thoughts a second time?” 


CHAPTER XXI 

DENOUNCED 

“ It was an epic,” said Villon, “ a veritable epic, and 
if you were truly the Homer I called you half the 
towns in France would claim you for a citizen. As it 
is you have only been born twice, once in — where was 
it? No matter, it is of very little importance; it is 
the second that really counts, and that second birth- 
place is — Amboise. A man’s soul is born of a woman 
just as his body is. And a man’s soul is love. Until 
love comes he is a lumpish mass of so much flesh with- 
out even a spark of the divine.” 

“Then you,” said La Mothe gravely, “have seen 
many incarnations?” 

“ Many ! ” — and Villon’s eyes twinkled — “ but with 
each one the pangs of birth grew less violent. You 
will find it so yourself. But our epic. Though I can- 
not write it I will sketch it in outline for you. Book 
the First : Hugues I ” He broke off, shaking his head 
soberly, every trace of his humorous mood gone. 
“Poor devil of a Hugues ! Francois Villon, who made 
verses, will be remembered, and Hugues, who made 
history, forgotten. Why cannot I write epics that we 
o 193 


194 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


might both be remembered together? But no! a 
tinkle of rhyme leavened with human nature and 
salted by much bitter experience — that is Francois 
Villon I I know my limitations. A man can give out 
nothing better than is put into him. Well, so long as 
we give our best I don’t believe the good God will be 
hard upon us. Now, then. Book the Second : Mart- 
lets and Mullets — there’s alliteration for you.” 

“Martlets and Mullets? Villon, what do you 
mean?” 

“ Have vou forgotten our friend of the spiked 
thorn?” 

“ But the Dauphin swears these were Tristan’s 
men.” 

“Tristan? Impossible! Tristan is too sure, too 
careful an artist to spoil his work. Heaven knows 
I do not love Tristan, but I will give him this credit : 
when he sets out on a piece of scoundrelly work he 
carries it through. No, no. I’ll wager my Grand Tes- 
tament to the epic — which will never be written — that 
it was Molembrais’ second cast of the net, and when he 
drags Amboise a third time there will be fish caught. 
What’s more. La Mothe, there is a traitor in Amboise 
— a traitor to the boy. First there was Bertrand, then 
the Burnt Mill: these don’t come by accident. But 
Tristan? Tristan botches no jobs. But to come back 
to our epic. Book the Third : Blaise ! How many 
dead were there?” 

“ Four.” 

“And Blaise, the stableman, has two at the least, 
if not three, to his credit. When Charles is king — 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 195 

pray heaven Louis does not hear me at Valmy — he 
should make Blaise, the stableman, a Marshal of 
France, or perhaps Master of the Horse would suit 
him better,” and Villon chuckled gleefully, He had 
always a huge appreciation of his own wit, however 
slender. “ There’s a lucky dog for you, to grip death 
round the neck, hugging him to the breast with both 
arms, and yet get nothing worse than a scratched 
wrist, a slashed palm, and a dent in a thick skull. 
Book the Fourth : but here is Monsieur d’Argenton 

and I had better No I I’ll stand my ground. 

The rose garden of Amboise is free to all king’s 
jackals.” 

“Villon, Villon, why are you so bitter-tongued?” 

“ Listen to Monsieur de Commines for five minutes 
and you will know why. And it is not I who am 
bitter, but the truth. Jackals both, I say.” 

They were, as Villon had said, in the rose garden. 
Dusk, the dusk of the day on which Hugues had made 
history to be forgotten, was thickening fast, but the 
air was still warm with all the sultriness of noon. To 
that confined space, with the grey walls towering on 
three sides, coolness came slowly. The solid masonry 
held the heat like the living rock itself, and no current 
of the night wind blowing overhead eddied downward 
in refreshment. 

But solid as was the masonry, and mighty the walls 
in their frowning strength, there is but little of them 
left, and of the rose garden not a trace. Time, the 
great iconoclast, has touched them with his finger and 
they have passed away like the humble maker of 


196 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


history, while Francois Villon’s tinkle of rhyme, 
leavened with human nature, still leaves its imprint on 
a whole nation. Perhaps the reason is that the makers 
of history could have been done without. In these 
generations the world would be little the worse, little 
changed had they never been born, and have lost noth- 
ing of the joy or brightness of life. In his own gener- 
ation the patriot is more necessary than the poet, but 
let four centuries pass and the poet will wield a larger 
influence than the patriot. 

But thick as was the dusk, a dusk thicker than the 
actual degree of night because of the prevailing shadow. 
La Mothe saw that Commines was disturbed by an un- 
wonted excitement. Not from his face. It was deeply 
lined and sternly set, the eyes veiled by gathered brows, 
the mouth harsh. But he breathed heavily, as a man 
breathes who has outrun his lung power, and his uneasy 
Angers clenched and unclenched incessantly. Those 
who knew Philip de Commines understood the signs 
and grew watchful. But it was upon Villon that the 
storm fell. 

“ For an hour I have been searching for you — in the 
Chateau, in the Chien Noir, in every tavern in Am- 
boise ” 

“ And you find me amongst the roses ! How little 
you know my nature, Monsieur d’Argenton I ” 

“I know it better than I like it,” answered Com- 
mines grimly. “ You lodge at the Chien Noir ? ” 

“ It has that honour. The cooking is passable, and 
I can commend to you its wine of ’63. Monsieur La 
Mothe drinks nothing else.” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


197 


“ As with a fool so with a drunkard, one may make 
many. But I am not here to talk of Monsieur La 
Mothe’s drinking bouts, though they explain much. 
You are in the King’s service ? ” 

“ As we all are ; you and I and Monsieur La Mothe. 
Yes.” 

“No quibble ; you are paid to be faithful ? ” 

“ As we all are ; you and I and Monsieur La Mothe. 
Yes.” 

“Villon, curb your impertinences. I’ll not endure 
them.” 

“Monsieur d’Argenton, there is a proverb which 
says, ‘Physician, cure thyself.’ What did I tell you. 
Monsieur La Mothe? The five minutes are not up 
yet.” But Stephen La Mothe discreetly answered 
nothing. One of the first lessons a man learns in the 
ways of the world is to keep his fingers from between 
other men’s millstones. 

“ You lodge at the Chien Noir,” went on Commines, 
ignoring the retort ; “ you are in the King’s service and 
have been paid with your life. Why are you not faith- 
ful ? Under your very eyes a devilish scheme is hatched 
and you see nothing. Are you a fool, or have you 
grown besotted in your age ? And you, Stephen, you 
who were given a free hand in Amboise for this very 
thing, you who have spent your days in child’s play — 
Stephen, son ” — with a sudden gesture Commines put 
his hand across La Mothe’s shoulder, drawing him almost 
into the hollow of his arm, and the cold severity passed 
from the hard voice — “ don’t mistake me, don’t think 
I scoff at to-day’s danger, to-day’s courage. No. I 


198 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


thank God you are safe, I thank God he has given me 
back my son Stephen; but what am I to say to the 
King? ” 

“ Ho ! ho ! ” said Villon ; “ so it is son Stephen now- 
adays? Then the play is almost played out ? ” 

“ Most of all I blame you,” and Commines, his arm 
still round La Mothe’s shoulders, turned upon Villon 
in a swift access of passion. “ How is it you are blind, 
you who are hand and glove with Jean Saxe? Be sure 
the King shall hear the truth.” 

But Villon was unabashed. “What is the truth, 
Monsieur d’Argenton ? Even your friend Tristan 
would not hang a man without first telling him what 
for. What is this truth of yours ? ” 

“ There is a plot against the King’s life.” 

“ In Amboise ? ” 

“ In Amboise. The Dauphin, that woman Ursula de 
Vesc, Hugues ” 

“ It’s a lie,” cried La Mothe, shaking himself free 
from Commines’ arm. “ A lie, a lie. I have Madem- 
oiselle de Vesc’s own word for it that it is a lie.” 

“ And I have proof that it is true.” 

“ Proof ? Whose proof ? ” 

Commines hesitated to reply. Already he had over- 
stepped his purpose. Before making his disclosure to 
La Mothe he had searched for Villon in the hope of 
drawing some confirmation from him, or what, to a 
mind willing to be convinced, might pass for confirma- 
tion; but in his vexed anger he had spoken pre- 
maturely. Weakly he tried to cover his error, first by 
an appeal, then by domineering. But the lover in 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


199 


Stephen La Mothe was neither to be cajoled nor 
threatened. 

“ Stephen, cannot you trust me after all these years ? 
What interest have I but the King’s service ? ” 

“ Uncle, you said proofs — whose proofs ? ” 

“ What is that to you ? Do you forget that you are 
to obey my orders ? ” 

“ Proofs, Monsieur d’Argenton, whose proofs ? ” 

“ All do not blind themselves as you do.” Round 
he swung upon Villon, shaking a stretched-out finger 
at him viciously. “ Drinking himself drunk like a sot, 
or hoodwinked by a cunning, unscrupulous woman for 
her own vile ends. Silence, sir I ” he thundered as La 
Mothe sprang forward in protest. “ You ask for proofs, 
and when I come to proofs you would cry me down 
with some mewling folly. For her own purposes she 
has philandered with you, dallied with you, listened to 
your love songs till the crude boy in you thinks she is 
a saint.” 

“A saint,” answered La Mothe hoarsely, “a saint. 
I say so — I say so. A saint as good, as sweet, as 
pure ” He paused, looking round him in the dark- 

ness, and his eyes caught the faintness of a far-off patch 
of grey suspended in mid-air against the gloom. “ As 
pure and good as these lilies, and the Mother of God 
they are called, for that. Monsieur d’Argenton, is 
Ursula de Vesc.” 

“ Good boy,” said Villon, rubbing his hands softly ; 
“ he has not sat at the feet of Francois Villon these ten 
days for nothing. I could not have said it better my- 
self.” 


200 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


But Commines was unmoved by the outburst. It 
was to combat this very unreason of devotion that he 
had hoped for further confirmation. Villon would 
surely let slip a phrase which would serve his purpose, 
a word or two would do, a suggestive hint, and then a 
little colouring, a little sophistry, would make the little 
much and the hint a damning reality. To an adept in 
the art of twisting phrases such an amplification of 
evidence was easy. Meanwhile an open quarrel would 
serve no good purpose. 

“Words, Stephen,” he said more gently, “mere 
words, and what are rhetoric and declamation against 
proofs ? ” 

“Whose proofs?” repeated La Mothe doggedly. 
Once more, as on the night of his coming to Amboise, 
he felt the ground slipping from under his feet and 
was afraid of he knew not what. “ So far it is you who 
have answered with rhetoric and declamation.” 

“ Word-of-mouth proofs.” 

“ Here in the Chateau ? ” 

“ No,” answered Commines reluctantly, “ not just in 
the Chateau but at its very door. I tell you, Stephen, 
there can be no mistake. Weeks ago Hugues ap- 
proached him, first with hints, then more openly. It 
was the very cunning of Satan, the line of argument 
was so plausible. The King is old and ailing, life a 
very weariness, death a relief. In his sick suspicion 
he grows harsh to cruelty, striking first and judging 
afterwards. France was afraid, bitterly afraid. Men 
died daily for no cause, died innocent and as good as 
murdered, gave names and instances, and because of 


THE OF THE KING 201 

these France was furaid. ^one knew who w'^uid 
follow next. For the gerj erai good, for the safety 
of the nation, some one must act So the Dauphin 
had sent him, the Dauphin an^l Ma i h He de 
Vesc. That was weeks ago, and you,” agai Corn lioos 
turned upon Villon in denunciation, “youm.. t have 
known.” 

“ Lies, all damnable lies,” said La Mothe, choking. 
“Who is the liar? You won’t tell me? But I must 
know; I must and shall. Not in the Chateau, but at 
its very door? At its door? Jean Saxe! Is it Jean 
Saxe, Uncle, is it Jean Saxe? It is! it is ! Jean Saxe 

the — the Villon, you said there was a traitor to 

the Dauphin in Amboise, was that J ean Saxe ? A 
traitor to the Dauphin, a liar to the King; who else 
could it be but Saxe? It was Jean Saxe who gave 
Molembrais his chance ten days ago, Jean Saxe who 
knew of the play in the Burnt Mill to-day. Mademoiselle 
told him ” 

“ More proof,” said Commines. “ She and Jean Saxe 
are in collusion.” 

“Collusion to kidnap the Dauphin? Mademoiselle 
de Vesc and Jean Saxe in league against the boy ? 
Uncle, you are mad and your proof proves too much. 
If all the world were one Jean Saxe I would believe 
Ursula de Vesc’s No ! against him.” 

“ Good boy,” repeated Villon, speaking, as it were, 
to the world at large. “ The very first time I saw him 
I said he was the image of myself. Monsieur d’Argen- 
ton, what is Jean Saxe’s story ? ” 

“That by Mademoiselle de Vesc’s directions Hugues 


202 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


sounded him oti behalf of the Dauphin, but vaguely at 
first. There was great discontent, said Hugues, and 
greater fear. The death of de Molembrais, guaranteed 
though he was by a safe-conduct, had set France asking 
who was secure if once the King had determined on his 
destruction. Even loyalty was no safeguard. In the 
ling’s sick suspicion his most faithful servants might 
be the first to suffer. Not a day passed but there was 
a hanging, and de Molembrais was a warning to both 
high and low. For a man to keep his own life at all 
cost was no murder.” 

“ True,” said Villon. Toute heste garde sa pel ! Yes, 
monsieur ? ” 

“That was the gist of it; vague as you see, but 
significant. Then, two days ago, Hugues spoke a 
second time, urging Saxe to a decision. If the 
Dauphin were king, all France would breathe freely, 
all France would say. Thank God! The generous 
nature of the boy was well known. There would be 
rewards. Mademoiselle de Vesc had authorized him to 
promise ” 

But La Mothe could control himself no longer. 
Through Commines’ indictment, coldly, almost phleg- 
matically delivered, he stood motionless and silent, his 
hands clenched, every muscle tense with restraint. It 
was the fighting attitude, the attitude of a man who 
waits in the dark for a blow he knows not whence, but 
a blow which will surely come. Now the restraint 
snapped. 

“Villon, for God’s sake, do you believe this lie?” 

It was an exceeding bitter cry, and the pain of it 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


203 


pierced through even Commines’ armour of calmness. 
But Villon, though he shivered a little, only shook his 
head. His face, dimly seen, was full of a grave con- 
cern. 

“Some one has spoken to Saxe,” he said. “ Hugues 
or another. I know Saxe well, he has not brains 
enough to imagine so great a truth.” 

“A truth! ” cried Commines, catching at the phrase 
he waited for. “Stephen, Stephen, all along I warned 
you she was dangerous.” 

“Very dangerous,” said Villon, “I have felt it my- 
self. No man is safe. In ’57 — or was it ’58 ? — there 
was just such another. Her mother kept the little 
wine shop at the corner of ” 

“ Take care, sot, it is the King you trifle with, not 
me. You said Saxe had told the truth.” 

“ That the King and France are both sick ; yes. 
Monsieur d’Argenton.” 

“ No, no, but that Saxe had been approached.” 

“ By Hugues or another; yes, I believe that.” 

“ You hear, Stephen ? Does that satisfy you ? ” 

“ But I also believe that Saxe, being a fool, has added 
a little on his own account,” went on Villon as if 
Commines had never spoken. 

“ Then what is the truth ? ” 

“You ask that of a poet? As well ask it of a 
courtier — or a king’s minister,” he added, and turned 
to La Mothe. “Were I you I would set them face to 
face this very night.” 

“But she has already denied it.” 

“ All the more reason. A truth will wait till morn- 


204 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


ing, but a lie should be killed overnight. Lies breed 
fast and die hard.” 

“ But she may refuse.” 

“ If I know women,” said Villon, “ Mademoiselle de 
Vesc will refuse you nothing.” 


CHAPTER XXII 

“WE MUST SAVE HER TOGETHER” 

But while Stephen La Mothe still hesitated Corn- 
mines took action. He recognized that sooner or later 
there must be a confronting. Ursula de Vesc, however 
deeply implicated, was no patient Griselda to accept 
judgment without a protest. Tacit admission would 
condemn the Dauphin equally with herself, and she 
might be trusted to fight for the Dauphin with every 
wile and subterfuge open to a desperate woman. In 
her natural attitude of indignation she would certainly 
force a crisis. The sooner the crisis came the better, 
and amongst those for whom that was better Philip de 
Commines was not the least. With all his heart he 
loathed the part he was compelled to play, even while 
determined to play it to its ghastly end. But to some 
men, Commines amongst them, the irrevocable brings a 
drugging of the sensibilities. When that which must 
be done could not be undone he would be at peace. 

The sooner the crisis came the better, too, for Ste- 
phen La Mothe, and Commines’ sympathies went out 
to him with an unwonted tenderness. The lad's nerves 
were flayed raw, and for him also there could be no 
206 


206 


THE JUSTICE OP THE KING 


peace until the inevitable end had come. But just 
what that end would be, and how it was to be reached, 
Commines feared to discuss even with himself. 

But the first necessity was that Ursula de Vesc’s 
complicity should be brought home to her. Let that 
be done, and La Mothe’s despair might clear aside all 
difficulties, though, without doubt, the poor boy would 
suffer. There is no such pain as when love dies in the 
full glory of its strength. But then would come the 
ministrations of Time, the healer. Mother Nature of 
the rough hand and tender heart would scar the hurt, 
and little by little its agony would numb into a passive 
submission. 

It was a truth he had proved. Suzanne’s death had 
been as the plucking out of the very roots of life. In 
that first tremendous realization of loss there had been 
no place left for even God Himself. But that had 
passed. The All-Merciful has placed bounds on the 
tide of human suffering : Thus far shalt thou go, and no 
further. The maimed roots of life had budded afresh, 
and if no flower of love had shed its fragrance to bless 
the days, there had been peace. So would it be with 
Stephen La Mothe. But the Valley of Tribulation must 
first be crossed, and it would be the mercy of kindness 
to shorten the passage, even though the plunge into its 
shadows was the more swift. For that there must be 
conviction, and for the conviction a confronting. Vil- 
lon was right, Ursula de Vesc and Jean Saxe should be 
set face to face within the hour. 

“ Monsieur Villon,” he said with unaccustomed cour- 
tesy, “ I agree with you. Hugues is dead, the Dauphin 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


207 


too high above us, but Mademoiselle de Vesc has the 
right to know the peril she stands in. Will you do 
us all a kindness and bring Jean Saxe to the Chateau? 
Monsieur La Mothe and I will ” he paused, search- 

ing for a word which would be conclusive and yet with- 
out offence, “will summon Mademoiselle de Vesc.” 

“ It is an outrage,” said La Mothe stubbornly, “ and 
I protest against it, protest utterly.” 

“ Stephen, try and understand,” and Commines laid 
his hand upon the younger man’s shoulder with some- 
thing more than the persuasive appeal of the father 
who, to his sorrow, is at variance with the son of his 
love. It was the gesture of the friend, the equal, the 
elder in authority who might command but elects to 
reason. “Consider my position a moment. By the 
King’s command I stand in his place in Amboise. If 
he were here ” 

“ God forbid ! ” said Villon. “ The King is like 
heaven — dearly loved afar off.” 

“ But his justice is here ” 

“ And his mercy ? ” 

“And his mercy,” repeated Commines coldly, “the 
mercy that gave you life when justice would have hung 
you as a rogue and a thief. Of all men you are the 
last who should sneer at the King’s mercy. And now 
will you call Jean Saxe, or must I go myself ? ” 

“ As my friend La Mothe decides,” answered Villon. 
“ I advise it myself. Give a lie a night’s start and you 
will never catch it up.” 

“ Stephen, son, be wise.” 

With a gesture of despair La Mothe would haye 


208 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


turned away, but Commines held him fast. His faitil 
was unshaken, but the natural reaction from the day’s 
tense emotion had sapped its buoyancy, leaving it nega- 
tive and inert rather than positive and aggressive. The 
half-hour’s slackless concentration of nerve and muscle 
in the defence of the stairway had drained him of 
strength and energy like the crisis of a fever. For 
him Ursula de Vesc’s curt No ! stood against the 
world; but Philip de Commines was the King’s jus- 
tice in Amboise, and against Jean Saxe’s accusation 
her denial would carry no weight — no weight at all. 
But, though the gesture was one of helplessness, Villon 
chose to construe it into consent. 

“ Good ! ” he said cordially, “ it is best, much the 
best. In half an hour I will bring Saxe to — let me 
see, the Hercules room, I think. Monsieur d’Argenton ? 
It is small, but large enough for the purpose, and as it 
has only one door it can be easily guarded.” 

“No guards,” said Commines harshly. “ There must 
be no publicity.” 

Villon laughed unpleasantly. His shifting mood 
had, almost for the first time in his life, felt kindly 
disposed towards Commines as he saw his evident 
solicitude for La Mothe, but that was forgotten in 
the contemptuous recall of a past he held should no 
longer rise against him. What the King forgave 
the King’s minister should forget. The thrust had 
wounded his vanity, and now, as he saw his opening, 
he promptly thrust back in return. 

“You are the King’s justice in Amboise and would 
have no man know it I That is true modesty, Mon- 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


209 


sieur d’Argenton ! No, don’t fear, there will be no 
publicity. Monsieur La Mothe, he calls you son ; but 
friend is more than kin, more than family, remember 
that Francois Villon says so.” 

Commines’ answer was an upward shake of the head, 
a lifting of the shoulders hardly perceptible in the dark- 

nC*=5S. 

“li: is the nature of curs to snarl,” he said. “But 
his impertiil^nce grows insufferable and must be muz- 
zled.” Linking' his arm into La Mothe’s he drew him 
slowly along the gai’^ien path. Both were preoccupied 
by the same desire, to \Tip other to his own way of 
thinking, but it was the m^l^© cautious elder who spoke 
first. He would appeal to the affection Villon had 
gibed at. - ' - — 

“Stephen, dear lad, with all my heart I grieve for 
you. Would to God it were anything but this. 
Mademoiselle de Vesc has always opposed me, but that 
is nothing; has always striven to thwart me, but for 
your sake that could be forgotten ; has always flouted 
and belittled me, but for your sake that could be for- 
given. You are as the son of my love, and what is 
there that love will not forgive — will not forget? 
These weigh nothing, nothing at all. In the face of 
this — this — tremendous crime against the King, against 
all France, I count them nothing, less than nothing. 
Dear lad, you must be brave. This worthless 
woman ” 

“No, Uncle, no, not that, never that!” La Mothe’s 
voice was as level and quiet as Commines’ own, and the 
elder knew thereby that his difficulty was the greater. 


p 


210 THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 

Quietness is always strong, always assured of itself. 
“I do not believe Saxe speaks the truth.” 

“Saxe is the spark, and I told you I smelt smoke. 
Even Villon admits, much against his will, that some 
one has approached Saxe.” 

“But not Hugues, and if that is untrue then all is 
untrue.” 

“No: there is no logic in that. Hugues or a^^^^ther, 
it matters little who it was. It is the fac^, that damns, 
and Saxe is explicit. A.nd how can -yillon be sure it 
was not Hugues? ” 

“Uncle, Uncle, you can’t fe^ieve it, in your heart 
you can t believe it. All +J}jese days you have seen her, 
so gracious, so gentle. womanly. It can’t be true, it 
can u. "x i2f ^ 1® - some horrible mistake. ” 

“Saxe is explicit, and Villon agrees with him,” re- 
peated Commines, driving home the inexorable point. 
“Nor can I help myself; the King has left me no 
alternative.” 

“Mademoiselle de Vesc has denied it to me, and I 
believe her.” 

“You believe her because you love her.” 

“No,” answered La Mothe simply, “I believe her 
because I have faith in her, but even though she were 
all Saxe says, and more, I would stand by her because 
I love her.” 

Commines paused in his slow walk, slipped his hand 
from La Mothe’s arm, and they stood silent side by 
side. Then in his perplexity he moved a few paces 
away, halted, turned again and faced La Mothe. 

“Poor lad, and I have no alternative. The King and 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


211 


my duty alike allow me none. Stephen, in self-defence 
I must be frank with you. It is my firm belief that 
the King has evidence he cannot show openly ” 

“And so a pretext will be enough? God in heaven! 
is that justice ? ” 

“No, there must be something more than a pretext, 
something more than a lie; but Saxe will be enough.” 

“It will be enough if Saxe’s lies cannot be dis- 
proved ? ” 

“ If Saxe cannot be disproved,” corrected Commines. 
“I cannot admit that Saxe lies.” 

“And what then?” 

Again Commines turned away. Humanity’s Iron 
Age was as stern, as selfish, as callous, as cruel as in 
the days of Attila the Hun. Christianity, after its 
almost fifteen centuries, had no more than, as it were, 
warmed it through with its gentle fires. There was as 
yet no softening. It was true that some increasing 
flowers of civilization obscured the brutality, some deco- 
rations of art glorified it, but underneath the beauty 
and the art the native ruthlessness remained unchanged. 
Might founded a throne upon the ruin of weaker na- 
tions, cemented its strength with the blood of inno- 
cence, set the crown upon its own head, and reigned in 
arrogant defiance of right or justice. 

From the barbarous Muscovite in the north to the 
polished Spaniard in the south the conditions scarcely 
varied. Everywhere there was the same spirit. A 
Louis pushed wide the borders of France by theft and 
the law of the stronger arm, a Ferdinand offered up his 
holocaust to the greater glory of God, a Philip yet to 


212 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


come would steep the Netherlands in blood to the very 
dikes that the same God might be worshipped in 
violation of the worshipper’s conscience, in England 
a Crookback Richard had neither pity nor scruple 
when a crown was the reward of ruthlessness and 
murder. 

Nor in the high places of religion was there a nobler 
law. A Sixtus, at that very moment, was letting loose 
the horrors of an unjust war upon Florence and Ferrara 
in the name of the Prince of Peace, while the sinister 
figure of Alexander Borgia sat upon the steps of the 
Papal throne biding its time. If the meek inherited 
the earth, it was commonly a territory six feet long and 
two in breadth. Everywhere the ancient rule was still 
the modern plan ; those took who had the power, and 
those kept who could. There were exceptions, but ex- 
ceptions were rare. Even at the Round Table there 
was only one Galahad. 

Commines did not differ greatly from his age, or he 
would have been no fit minister for Louis. A tool is 
no longer a tool if it is not obedient to the hand which 
guides it. Let it fail in the work set it to do and it is 
cast aside into forgottenness or broken up as waste. 
He had no liking, he had even a loathing, for the part 
allotted to him, and he played it unwillingly ; left to 
himself, he would not have played it at all. Ursula de 
Vesc might have lived out her life in peace so far as he 
was concerned ; but Ursula de Vesc stood in his mas- 
ter’s path, and however distasteful it might be she must 
be swept aside, now that Saxe made it possible so to do, 
and yet hold a semblance of justice. Only through her 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


213 


could the Dauphin be reached, therefore Commines 
steeled his nerves. 

But to Stephen, partly for his own sake, and yet 
more for the memory of the dear dead woman, his heart 
went out in a greater tenderness than that of cold sym- 
pathy. Human love in the individual has been the salt 
which has kept the body politic from utter rottenness. 
How to soften the blow to Stephen was his thought as 
he paced slowly through the cool darkness of the night : 
how to do more than that, how to link Stephen to his 
own fortunes, which would surely rise after the suc- 
cessful execution of this commission of tragedy. Slowly 
he paced into the darkness, turned, and paced as slowly 
back again, to find Stephen standing motionless where 
he had left him, his hands linked behind his back, his 
shoulders squared, his face very sternly set. 

“And if Jean Saxe’s lies cannot be disproved? 
What follows then?” 

“ Stephen, we must save her together.” He paused, 
but La Mothe made no reply. What could he answer? 
To continue protesting her innocence with nothing but 
his own word and hers to back the assertion was but 
beating the air ; to ask. How shall we save her? would, 
he thought, tacitly admit her guilt. So there was si- 
lence until Commines went on slowly and with an evi- 
dent difficulty ; he would need all his diplomacy, he 
realized, all his powers of sophistry and persuasion if 
he was to carry Stephen La Mothe with him along 
the path he proposed to follow. 

“Let us face facts,” he began, almost roughly. 
“ Saxe will leave me no alternative. No ! say nothing. 


214 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


I know it all beforehand, and with all my soul I wish 
this had not fallen to my lot. And yet, Stephen, it is 
better I should be here than Tristan; Tristan has a 
rough way with women. Poor lad, that hurts you, 
does it ? Yes, I am better than Tristan, even though 
Saxe leaves me no alternative. But we shall save her 
together,” and this time Stephen La Mothe, out of the 
horror of the thought of Ursula de Vesc given over to 
the mercies of such a man as Tristan, found it in his 
heart to ask, “ How ? ” The answer came promptly, 
but with grave deliberation. 

“ By the King’s mercy.” 

“ What mercy had the King on Molembrais ? Will 
he be more merciful to a woman? ” 

“ Then by his gratitude. Stephen, for her sake we 
must win the King’s gratitude together.” 

“I do not understand.” 

“ Behind the girl, but joined with her, stands ” 

“The Dauphin? My God, Uncle, not that way.” 
La Mothe’s voice was strange even to his own ears, so 
harsh and dry was it, the voice of age rather than of 
youth, and, indeed, he felt as if in this last hour he had 
suddenly grown so old that the world was a weariness. 

“There were three in this plot,” answered Corn- 
mines, unmoved from his slow gravity, “Hugues, the 
Dauphin, and Mademoiselle de Vesc. Hugues is dead, 
but two still remain.” 

“ His own son, his own, his one son ? No, no, it 
cannot be, it cannot.” 

“I grant that it is incredible, but Saxe leaves no 
loophole for doubt.” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 215 

“ I do not mean that. I meant it could not be that 
the King — I cannot say it ; his one son.” 

“ He has no son but France. Do you remember 
what I told you that night in my room ? Better the 
one should suffer than the many. And now there 
is a double reason, a double incentive to us both. 
Mademoiselle de Vesc’s life hangs upon it. Follow 
the chain of reasoning, and, for God’s sake, Stephen, 
follow closely. There is more than the life of a girl 
in all this. Jean Saxe cannot be suppressed even if 
we dared attempt it; Francois Villon, the King’s 
jackal, who holds his life by a thread, knows every- 
thing. Of all men he dares not keep silence, of all 
men he would not keep silence if he dared, scum that 
he is. Within two days the King will know all Saxe’s 
accusations, and if we do not act for ourselves another 
— Tristan or another — will come in our place. We 
will have destroyed ourselves for nothing, and there 
will be no hope for the girl, none. Can you not guess 
Tristan’s methods with women ? But, Stephen, if we 
act, if we return to Valmy and say, ‘ Sire, we have 
done our duty to the nation, with heavy hearts and in 
bitter sorrow we have done it ; even though we have 
laid love itself on the altar of sacrifice, we have done 
it, give us this one life in return’ — can the King 
refuse ? Remember, if it is not we it will be another, 
and if we have no claim to ask, there will be no life 
given. Nor can we have any claim but obedience. I 
see no other way, no other hope.” 

The touch upon his arm was half appeal, half ad- 
monition, wholly friendly, but La Mothe winced as he 


216 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


shrank from it. There are times when human sym- 
pathy is the very salvation of the reason and the one 
comfort possible to the bruised spirit, but now the 
solitary instinct of the sick animal was upon him and 
he longed to be alone. Some sorrows are so personal 
they cannot be shared. Nor was it all sorrow. There 
was the passion of a fierce resentment, the bitter pro- 
test of helpless nature against a wanton and callous 
outrage. 

As plainly as if Commines had said it in so many 
words he understood that, sinless or sinning, Ursula 
de Vesc was to be sacrificed to some state advantage; 
he understood, too, that neither Commines nor the 
King cared greatly whether she was innocent or guilty, 
and that but for his sake Commines would have given 
her hardly a second thought. Saxe lies! What 
matter ? The state must progress. Saxe lies I What 
matter ? Better one suffer than the many. Saxe lie^^^ 
What matter ? We will save her together by the one 
way possible. ^ 

Did he remember that first night in Amboise? Had 
he ever forgotten? Even in his plays of make-believe 
had he ever forgotten ? The mind has a way of laying 
aside the unpalatable in some pigeon-hole of memory; 
it is out of sight, not forgotten. Yes, he remembered. 
Then it had been obedience to the King, service to the 
man to whom he owed everything and a duty to France. 
Now, more tremendous than all, Ursula de Vesc’s life 
was thrown suddenly into the scale. That was Corn- 
mines’ plain statement. Nor was he conscious of any 
resentment against Commines. If Jean Saxe held to 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


217 


his story Commines could have no alternative, and if 
not Commines, it would he another, another less kindly. 

No! His rebellion, the bitter upheaval of spirit, 
was against the conspiracy of iron circumstances which 
hedged him round on every side, a rebellion such as a 
man might feel who finds himself in silent darkness 
bound hand and foot with grave-clothes, while his 
brain is still quick and every nerve quivering with the 
passionate desire for life. “ I see no hope,” said Com- 
mines, “no hope but the one way,” and Stephen La 
Mothe knew that one way was murder. Abruptly he 
turned upon his heel. 

“ The half-hour must be almost up,” he said ; “ let 
us go to her.” 


s 


CHAPTER XXIII 

JEAN SAXE IS EXPLICIT 

“Say to Mademoiselle de Vesc that Monsieur d’Ar- 
gentou requires to speak with her in the Hercules 
room.” It was the Judge who spoke. Already Corn- 
mines stood in Louis’ place to search, sift, find, and 
his tone was as cold and curt as the words were 
brusque. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “You 
can say, too, that Monsieur La Mothe is with him.” 

“ No,” said La Mothe ; “ omit that part of it.” 

For a moment Commines hesitated, annoyed by a 
tone curter and colder than his own, but after a 
glance at La Mothe’s set face he motioned to the 
servant to go. That was not the moment to precipi- 
tate a confiict. 

“ Stephen, why not ? It is the truth.” 

“ Great heavens ! do we want the truth ? ” answered 
La Mothe. 

“ But we are not friendly, she and I, and she may 
not come ; you said so yourself. Remember, we must 
have no scandal, no publicity.” 

“Yes, what you have to do will be best done in the 
dark.” 

“ Stephen, be just. You know I mean that Saxe’s 
218 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


219 


story is not one to be blazed abroad. Besides, nothing 
will be done to-night.” 

“ But to-morrow, or next day ? ” 

“ It was not for the Dauphin’s sake you risked your 
life this afternoon.” 

“ That is quite true. It was for Mademoiselle de 
Vesc, and it may be risked again.” 

“ Stephen, what do you mean ? ” But La Mothe, 
striding ahead as if impatient to face the issue and 
have done with uncertainties, returned no answer. 
There could be no answer until he saw how events 
fell out. 

The Hercules chamber was named after the tapes- 
try which hid the dull grey plaster of its walls. From 
the one door — and that there should be but one was 
unusual in an age when to provide for the strategy of 
retreat was common prudence — where the infant Hero 
strangled with chubby hands the twin serpents sent 
for his destruction, the story of his labours told itself 
with all the direct simplicity of medieval art. 

No chronology was followed, the embroiderer hav- 
ing chosen her scenes at pleasure or as the exigencies 
of space demanded. Here, Samson-like, he tore the 
Numean lion jaw from jaw, his knee sunk in the 
shaggy chest, his shoulders ripped to the bone as 
the hooked claws gripped the muscles, his mighty 
torso a dripping crimson in the scheme of colour. 
There he cleansed the Augean stable in a faithful- 
ness of detail more admirable in its approach to na- 
ture than its appeal to the sensibilities, the artist 
having left nothing to the imagination; beyond was 


220 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


the more human note, and Omphale bound him to 
her by a single thread stronger than all the chains 
ever riveted in Vulcan’s forge. Next, with perhaps 
a significance of symbolism, the shirt of Nessus tor- 
tured him to madness with its scorching fires till the 
huge limbs writhed and the broad, kindly face was 
all a-sweat with agony, but — and now it was the 
door again — the benediction of peace crowned the end. 
The labours, the sorrows, the fiery trials were behind 
the back for ever, the faults and failures were forgiven 
or atoned for; after the stress of toil, the weariness 
of struggle, came the blessedness of rest; after hu- 
manity, divinity and the imperishable glory of high 
Olympus. Crude in its art, angular in its execution, 
there still was something of the soul of the worker 
stitched with the canvas. To Stephen La Mothe, 
touched at times by a poet’s comprehension, it seemed 
not altogether a myth, — a type, perhaps ; only, being 
very human, he hungered with a bitter hunger for the 
crowning of the peace and the divinity of love while 
life was life. It requires a robust faith to believe that 
Olympus can bring anything better than the best of 
earth. 

A carved oak bench, black with age, stood beneath 
the centre of the three narrow windows piercing the 
outer wall; a four-branched copper lamp gave light 
from the polished table in the middle of the room; 
here and there, flanking the oaken bench, at the ends 
of the room, and at either side of the wide fireplace, 
were chairs and stools. A few wolfskin rugs dotted 
the floor. Villon and Saxe had not yet arrived. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


221 


“ Mademoiselle begs that she may be excused to-night ; 
she is very tired.” 

“But she cannot be excused,” began Commines, 
when La Mothe intervened. 

“Say that Monsieur La Mothe very greatly regrets 
she should be disturbed when so weary, but as it is 
of importance to Monseigneur he trusts she will excuse 
Monsieur d’Argenton’s importunity.” 

“I told you how it would be,” said Commines as 
the servant left the room, “you might as well have 
given your name first as last.” 

But La Mothe shook his head. “There is a dif- 
ference, and she will understand.” Then the restraint 
he had put upon himself with so much difficulty 
snapped for a moment : “ Uncle, for God’s sake, be 
gentle with her.” 

“ I will be all I dare, but I trust neither Saxe nor 
Villon,” and as he spoke the two entered the room. 

In spite of a strong effort at self-control the inn- 
keeper was visibly ill at ease, while Villon, on his 
part, was complacently, almost offensively, cheerful. 
In a characteristic Puckish humour he had played 
alternately on Saxe’s hopes and fears, but refusing 
all definite information beyond the bare statement 
that Monsieur d’Argenton had sent for him peremp- 
torily. Why ? How could Francois Villon say why ? 
He was no confidant of the Lord High Jackal of all 
the King’s jackals. Saxe, who was so friendly with 
couriers from Valmy, should know why. Perhaps, 
humble though he, Jean Saxe, was, he had rendered 
the King some service of late? and at the hint Saxe 


222 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


glowed with expectation. Who was so generous a 
paymaster as Louis ! Perhaps, on the other hand, 
— and the wrinkles of Villon’s many wrinkled face 
deepened into puckers, — Jean Saxe knew too much. 
That was dangerous. Amboise was like Valmy, more 
entered than came out. Louis had many ways of 
paying debts. There was Guy de Molembrais, for 

instance , but Saxe was frankly sweating and 

Villon broke off. The second hint was clearer even 
than the first, and Saxe felt that both were true. 

But when he would have spoken Commines im- 
patiently motioned him to be quiet, flinging a “Wait ! ” 
at him as one might a command to a restless dog, and 
at the evil augury the drops gathered anew round the 
edge of his close-cropped hair ; gathered and swelled 
until they trickled down the cunning, stupid face. 
Villon, he noticed, and found another evil significance 
in the act, drew away from him, leaving him solitary 
just when the warm nearness of human kind would 
have been a comfort. 

They had not long to wait. Hearing a movement 
in the passage Villon threw open the door, closing it 
again behind Ursula de Vesc. Then he leaned against 
it like one interested but indifferent in his interest. 
The girl was pitifully pale. Double lines of care 
creased the smoothness of the forehead ; the weariness 
she had plead had been no pretence, but was written 
plainly in the languid gait, the drooped lids, and the 
dark patches beneath the eyes. By her side walked 
Charlemagne, and half a yard behind the three puppies 
trotted sleepily. Chariot lagging last ; even in his anx- 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


223 


ious preoccupation La Mothe noticed it was Chariot, the 
best beloved of the three because it was the weakest. 

Her first glance was for La Mothe, her second, and 
this time she bowed slightly, was towards Commines, 
then it fell upon Saxe, and the brows were raised in 
a mute interrogation, but there was neither apprehen- 
sion nor dismay. Stepping forward La Mothe placed 
a chair beside the table, and, crossing the room, she sat 
down with a murmur of thanks, then she turned to 
Commines. Drawing back a step La Mothe, half behind 
her, rested his hand on the chair-back, and the stage 
was set. 

“ Mademoiselle,” began Commines, “ Saxe, whom you 
know, told me a strange story to-day, and it seemed to 
us it was your right to hear it as soon as possible.” 

“ Us? Who are us. Monsieur d’Argenton?” 

“ Monsieur La Mothe and myself.” 

“ I agree with Monsieur d’Argenton that it is your 
right to hear it,” said La Mothe, “ but in everything 
else I disagree. For me your one word to-day was 
enough.” 

“ So that is why Monsieur d’Argenton is in Am- 
boise?” 

“ The story is this,” went on Commines, studiously 
ignoring the cold contempt in her voice. But she in- 
terrupted him. 

“ Let Saxe tell his own story ; why else is he here ? 
It is always safer to get such things first-hand. Now, 
Saxe?” 

Turning her shoulder on Commines she confronted 
Saxe. She knew she was, somehow, on her defence, 


224 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


but not the offence alleged against her. All day La 
Mothe’s unexpected question had troubled her, and 
vaguely she had connected it with the attempt upon 
the Dauphin at the Burnt Mill, though how she, the 
Dauphin’s almost one friend in Amboise, could have 
knowledge of the attempt she could not understand. 
With the failure of the attack she had thought the 
incident closed, but now Jean Saxe had a story to tell, 
a story in some way linked to Stephen La Mothe’s ques- 
tion, a question which flushed the pallor of even her 
weariness when she remembered how widely it had 
differed from what her thought had been. 

But Jean Saxe was in no haste with his tale. Jean 
Saxe shuffled his feet, licked his dry lips, and caught at 
his breath. His throat was drier than Villon’s had ever 
been, and Villon’s was the driest throat in Amboise. A 
modest man, though an innkeeper, Jean Saxe did not 
know which way to look now that he was, for the 
moment, the centre of the world. Either the grey 
eyes, their lids no longer drooping, searched him out, 
or Commines’ stern gaze stared him down, or, worst of 
all, he met the sardonic light with which Villon beamed 
his satisfaction at a scene quite to his humour, and so 
Jean Saxe was dumb, remembering that Louis had 
many ways of paying his debts, and more went into 
Amboise than came out again. For the trusted ser- 
vant of so generous a King Jean Saxe was not happy. 

“ Come, Saxe, come. Tell me what you told me this 
afternoon, neither more nor less. There is nothing in 
it to your discredit.” 

“Yes, monseigneur, certainly. I have nothing to 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


225 


hide. I have always been the King’s most humble, 
faithful, devoted ” 

“ Leave that aside. Come to your tale and tell the 
whole truth.” 

“ Of course, monseigneur. Hugues came to me ” 

“ When did Hugues go to you ? ” It was Ursula de 
Vesc who spoke. From his place behind her La Mothe 
could see the upward defiant tilt of the head as she 
asked the question. 

“Let him tell his story his own way,” said Corn- 
mines, “ or you will confuse him.” 

“ As you will, but Hugues is dead and cannot defend 
himself,” and the defiance passed as, with a sigh, the 
girl sank wearily into her chair, felt La Mothe’s hand 
where it rested upon the back, and leaned hastily for- 
ward, then settled slowly into her place again. As for 
Stephen La Mothe, the beating of his heart quickened, 
but he stood unmoved. The touch comforted them 
both. 

“ Hugues came two days ago ” 

“That was the second time. When did he come 
first ? ” 

“Three weeks ago, monseigneur.” 

“ Are you sure ? ” 

“ It was a week before your lordship came to Am- 
boise. I remember it perfectly because ” 

“ Never mind why ; that you remember and are sure 
of the day is enough. I want you to be exact. It was 
a week before Monsieur La Mothe and I arrived ? ” 

“Yes, monseigneur.” Saxe had thrown off his ner- 
vousness. He no longer shuffled his feet but stood 

Q 


226 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


breast square to the world. Commines’ questions had 
loosened the thread of his story and he was ready to 
run it off the reel without a tangle. “He said the 
King was very sick in Valmy, so sick and full of suf- 
fering that every hour of life was an hour of misery. 
It would be pure happiness, said he, pure charity and a 
blessing if such a life were ended. He was sure the 
King himself had no wish to live.” 

“That,” said Ursula de Vesc, her eyes fixed on 
vacancy, “is so very like what we all know of His 
Majesty.” 

“ Yes, mademoiselle. Then he went on to say that 
those who helped the poor suffering King to relief 
would be his best friends, and it ought to be no surprise 
if there were such friends.” 

“Were there names mentioned?” 

“ No, monseigneur, not then.” 

“ But this afternoon you told me ” 

“ I thought Saxe was to tell his story his own way? ” 
broke in Ursula de Vesc, tartly. 

“ Mademoiselle de Vesc, you cannot know the peril 
you stand in.” 

“Peril from what. Monsieur d’Argenton?” 

“ From the justice of the King.” 

“ If it be only from his justice then I stand in no 
peril. But I, and all who love the Dauphin, know well 
how the King’s justice deals with Amboise. Saxe, go 
on with your story your own way. No names were 
mentioned that day? What then?” 

“ Hugues said the King’s sickness made him peevish 
and suspicious, so that he doubted even his own friends. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


227 


No one was safe, neither high nor low, and no one 
could tell who would follow the same road as Monsieur 
de Molembrais, whose safe-conduct couldn’t save him. 
‘ Even you, Saxe,’ he said, ‘ faithful as you have been 
and true servant to the King, not even you are safe, 
and you know a man’s first duty is to himself.’ ” 

Francois Villon could not forgo the favourite tag of 
philosophy whereby he had shaped his own career, 
“ Toute he%te garde sa pel ! and that was the first time, 
Saxe?” 

“ The first time,” repeated Saxe. “ I think that was 
all he said then, monseigneur, or the gist of it, for he 
repeated it over and over again.” 

“ Then come to the second. When was it ? ” 

“Two days ago, monseigneur.” 

“ Tell it your own way ; or, stay a moment. 
Mademoiselle de Vesc,” and Commines turned to the 
girl, his face both grave and troubled, “ help us to be 
your friends, help us to save you from yourself before 
it is too late. Much can be forgiven to a generous de- 
votion however misplaced. The King, I am sure, will 
see it in that light. I beg, I pray you, pray you to 
speak before Saxe speaks. If not for your own sake, 
then for the Dauphin’s, for ” he paused, and, lift- 

ing his eyes, glanced at Stephen La Mothe bolt upright 
within touch of her, “ for the happiness of a life help 
us to help you.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


A PROPHET WITHOUT HONOUR 

At the appeal La Mothe’s grip upon the chair grew 
more tense, and his hand so shook that the whole 
chair was shaken as he felt the girl stiffen against his 
knuckles. What his hopes were he did not dare admit, 
though the foundations of his faith were never shaken. 
Better even than the girl he understood how great was 
the issue Commines played for in his effort to move her 
from her silence. Was it an honest appeal or was it a 
trap? Would the love of a father accept a hinted re- 
pentance, a veiled regret as sufficient? or did Com- 
mines, astute and unscrupulous in his master’s service, 
invite a contrition that he might triumphantly declare. 
Here is proof ? A single word spoken in reversal of 

her afternoon’s denial would justify But swiftly 

as thought grew from thought Ursula de Vesc was yet 
swifter in her reply. 

“ I think you mean to be kind. Monsieur d’Argenton, 
and for that I am grateful. Saxe, we are waiting.” 

“Two days ago Hugues came to me again. I was 
in the stables ” 

“ Where Hugues flung you into the horse-trough last 
month for speaking disrespectfully of the Dauphin ? ” 
228 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


229 


“ Mademoiselle, you must not interrupt ; later you 
can question Saxe if you wish.” 

“ I wished to show you what good friends they were, 
these two. Hugues cannot speak for himself.” 

“ He had need of me,” said Saxe sullenly, “ and that 
was the reason he came to me as I say. I was groom- 
ing Grey Roland. ‘ He saved a King for France,’ said 
Hugues, with his hand on his neck, ‘ and what a King 
he will make, so grateful, so generous. Not a man 
who helps him will be forgotten. And it won’t be long 
now. Saxe,’ he said, ‘you should join us while there 
is time.’ ‘Who are us?’ said I. But he wouldn’t 
answer that. ‘You could hang us all if you knew,’ he 
said. So I told him that unless I had at least one 
name I wouldn’t listen to him. What was he but a 
servant ? So he stood rubbing his chin awhile, then he 
said, ‘We need you, Saxe, for you have the horses we 
want and you know Valmy, so I’ll tell you who is the 
brain of it all and the keenest next to the Dauphin 
himself — Mademoiselle de Vesc.’ ” 

“ A lie,” said La Mothe, “ the damnedest lie that ever 
came out of hell. Finish your lies, Saxe.” 

Sternly Commines turned upon him. “ You are here 
only on sufferance; either leave the room or be silent.” 

“ Monsieur d’Argenton, it is every man’s right ” 

began La Mothe; but Ursula de Vesc, turning in her 
chair, laid a hand upon his arm. 

“Wait,” she said, smiling up at him bravely; “but 
I am grateful to you all the same. So I am the brain 
of it all, Saxe ? ” 

“ I only know what Hugues told me,” answered Saxe, 


230 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


looking straight before him. Of the two he was the 
more disturbed. His scalp tingled, and again the little 
points of perspiration were glistening on his forehead. 
Her quietness frightened him. To have shouted down 
a passion of protest, a passion of terrified, angry denial, 
would have been more natural. “He said you sent 
him on both days, you and Monseigneur. You were 
both afraid the King would suspect the truth ” 

“ The truth ! ” repeated the girl, and for the first 
time her voice shook ; “ but it is all a lie, as Monsieur 
La Mothe says, a clumsy lie, and yet I see that it may 
serve its purpose. It is not the truth the King re- 
quires. Monsieur d’Argenton, I tell you formally that 
what Saxe has said is absolutely untrue.” 

“ Saxe is explicit, you can question him when he has 
finished,” answered Commines coldly. For him the 
King stood behind Jean Saxe, and no mere denial 
would content Louis or set his fears at rest. “ Go on, 
Saxe. The King would suspect the truth?” 

“ So he said, monseigneur, and so there was need for 
haste,” said Saxe. 

“Then why wait two days before telling Monsieur 
d’Argenton? Why wait two days before warning the 
King? Why wait until Hugues was dead? ” 

“There was a courier from Valmy to-day,” said 
Villon, speaking for the first time, and, as it seemed, 
irrelevantly. 

Commines turned upon him sharply. “What has 
that to do with it ? He brought letters from the King 
addressed to me. Monsieur La Mothe knows their 
contents.” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


231 


“And for Jean Saxe,” retorted Villon; “letters from 
the King for Jean Saxe and Monsieur d’Argenton ! ” 

“ Ah 1 ” said mademoiselle the second time, “ so that 
is why Monsieur d’Argenton is in Amboise.” 

“ That is why,” answered Commines, his hand 
stretched out in denunciation. “ At Valmy we more 
than guessed your treason. But it was hard to be- 
lieve that a woman could so corrupt a boy, that a son 
could so conspire against a father, and I came to Am- 
boise probing the truth. And every day proof has 
piled upon proof, presumptive proof I grant, but proof 
damning and conclusive nevertheless. Every day the 
King has been held up to loathing and contempt. 
Every day the woman — you. Mademoiselle de Vesc, 
you — egged on the boy to worse than disaffection. 
Every day the son reviled the father, even to telling 
God’s own priest that his one thought was hate — 
everlasting hate. The spirit to hurt and the accursed 
will were there, more shameless every day, more shame- 
less and more insolent; but until to-day, until Jean 
Saxe spoke, there was no proof that the courage to act, 
the courage to carry out the evident ill desire was cal- 
lously plotting to set France shuddering with horror. 
But Saxe has spoken. That he should have spoken 
earlier is beside the point. He has spoken at last and 
the truth is stripped bare.” 

“No truth,” said mademoiselle, “no truth; before 
God, no truth.” She was rigidly upright in her chair, 
her eyes blazing like cold stars, her face very pale. 
Every limb, every muscle, was trembling, her hand 
pressed under her breast as when La Mothe had seen 


232 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


her for the first time. “No truth except that the 
Dauphin has said unwise things at times and I also. 
To that I confess.” 

“You confess because you cannot deny,” answered 
Commines, “ and had Hugues not tampered with Saxe 
the truth might never have been known until all 
France stood aghast at the tragedy. That Hugues is 
dead matters nothing. His death does not affect the 
issue. He would have denied it had he lived. But 
now we know without a doubt that you and he, and 
that unhappy boy, the Dauphin — Villon, who is that 
fumbling at the latch? Let no one in, and bid who- 
ever knocks begone whence he came.” 

But instead of obeying Villon flung the door wide. 
The Dauphin was on the threshold, half dressed, his 
shoes unbuckled, his laces awry, his face cadaverous 
in its pallor. He had been crying, and the traces of 
the unwiped tears lined his cheeks. Underneath the 
dull eyes, duller than common, were livid hollows, and 
he shook from head to foot in a nervous terror. 

“ Hugues,” he said, his voice a-quaver. “ How am I 
to do without Hugues ? He always slept at my door, 
and now I have no one — no one at all. Ursula, what 
has happened ? What are they saying to you ? ” 

Mechanically obedient to the dominant power of cus- 
tom rather than to any conscious will, Ursula de Vesc 
had risen at the boy’s entrance. But the strain of an 
enforced calmness is greater than that of any passionate 
outburst, and only the support of the table kept her on 
her feet. Against this she leaned, her open hand flat 
upon it. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


233 


“• Monseigneur — Charles — oh ! why did you come 
just now?” Her voice broke as it had not broken 
when confronting Saxe or braving the bitter denuncia- 
tion Commines had poured upon her. But the boy’s 
presence fretted her realization to the quick. It was 
not she alone before whose feet the gulf had opened so 
suddenly. “Go back to your room. Some one will 
take Hugues’ place, — good, brave, loyal Hugues.” 

“Sleep in peace. Monseigneur,” said La Mothe, “I 
will take Hugues’ place to-night.” 

But Commines thought he saw his way to end a scene 
which had grown embarrassing, and at the same time 
take the first step along a path which could have but 
one end. 

“There is no need for that. One of my men will 
guard the Dauphin.” 

“ Your man ? A man from Valmy sleep at my door ? 
Thank you. Monseigneur d’Argenton, but I do not wish 
to sleep so soundly as that.” 

“ And yet you wished your father to sleep sound ? ” 

“ My quarrel with my father is between the King and 
the Dauphin,” answered the boy with one of those sud- 
den accessions of dignity which were as characteristic as 
they were disconcerting. “Do you, sir, know your 
place and keep it. Ursula, what is Saxe doing here at 
this time of night ? ” 

Though he addressed Mademoiselle de Vesc by name, 
Charles looked round him as he spoke. The question 
was for the room at large. But no one answered him. 
It was no part of Commines’ plan to make a public 
charge against the Dauphin. There was no need to 


234 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


make such a charge, it could only provoke a scene of 
violence, of denial, of protest, of recrimination, and 
raise a storm whose echoes might pass beyond the walls 
of Amboise. Not that way would he earn the King’s 
thanks, so he held his peace. But the Dauphin was 
not to be cowed by silence. 

“Ursula, what have they been saying to you? All 
these men against one woman is cowardly. If I were 
a man like Monsieur La Mothe ” 

“Hush, Charles; Monsieur La Mothe is our friend.” 

“ I know. He saved us both to-day, me for the sec- 
ond time. Monsieur La Mothe, when I am king, I 
won’t forget. But why is Saxe here? Yillon, you are 
his friend, why is Saxe here ? ” 

Villon had closed the door behind the Dauphin, rest- 
ing his back against it as before. His shrewd clear 
eyes had watched every phase of the scene from its 
beginning. Twice he had spoken, twice or thrice he 
had laughed his soft unctuous chuckle as if his thoughts 
pleased him. Now, directly addressed, he came forward 
a step, and his bearing was that of the actor who hears 
his cue. 

“No friend. Monseigneur; the honour would be too 
great. Who am I to call myself the friend of a 
prophet? Or perhaps it was Hugues who was the 
prophet ; Hugues who is dead and cannot speak for 
himself.” 

“Speak no evil of Hugues,” said Charles, “he — 

he ” and the boy’s lips quivered, the tears 

starting afresh under his swollen lids as the memory 
of his loss came home to him, “he loved me, he 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


235 


died for me, and oh, Ursula ! will they take you from 
me too ? ” 

“No, Charles; surely not. But I think Monsieur 
Villon has something more to say. Why do you call 
Hugues a prophet ? ” 

“Because he foretold Guy de Molembrais’ death 
three days before it occurred — or was it four? You 
should know, Saxe ? ” 

“I only know what he told me,” answered Saxe 
doggedly, but the fresh ruddiness of his face had faded, 
and he sucked at his lips as if they had grown suddenly 
dry. He knew Villon and Villon’s ways of old, knew 
his bitter tongue, knew his shrewdness, and feared both. 

“Just so,” said Villon cheerfully, “and a week before 
Monsieur d’Argenton came to Amboise he told you no 
one was safe from the King’s sick suspicions, not even 
if he carried a safe-conduct, and instanced ” 

“ Villon is right ! ” cried La Mothe. “ Monsieur 
d’Argenton — Uncle — thank God, Villon is right. 
Guy de Molembrais was alive a week before we left 
Valmy. Saxe has lied, lied, lied. Do you see it. 
Uncle ? I knew he lied. Oh, you hound! you hound! 
And you had a letter from Valmy this afternoon? 
That accounts ” 

“ Hush, Monsieur La Mothe, hush.” Rising from her 
chair Ursula de Vesc almost put her hand over La 
Mothe’s mouth in her efforts to silence him. “You 
have said enough ; do not say too much — too much for 
yourself. Charles, Charles, let us thank God together,” 
and, turning from La Mothe, she caught the boy in her 
arms, drawing him to her breast in a passion of relief. 


236 THE JUSTICE OF THE KING ^ 

It was not difficult to see what her chief anxiety had 
been. “ Monsieur d’Argenton, surely you are satisfied 
now ? ” 

Was he satisfied? By no means. But Commines 
was spared the embarrassment of an immediate reply. 
The door, which Villon had just quitted, was thrown 
hastily open and a servant entered, a sealed envelope in 
his hand. Ignoring the Dauphin utterly — and it was 
indicative of the estimate in which the boy was held — 
he turned to Commines. 

“From Valmy, for Monsieur d’Argenton, in great 
haste. The messenger has left a horse foundered on 
the road.” 

“From Valmy? But this is not the King’s — 
there ! you can go. See that the messenger is well 
cared for.” 

With his thumb under the silk thread which, pass- 
ing through the seal, secured the envelope, Commines 
paused and, in spite of all his trained self-control, his 
face changed. Of all the emotions, fear is, perhaps, 
the most difiScult to conceal because of its widely 
varied shades of expression. With some it is a tight- 
ening of the nostrils, with others a compression of the 
lips, a change of colour, or a line between the brows. 
It may even be the laugh of an assumed carelessness, 
a pretence at jest, but upon one and all it leaves some 
sign. The seal was not the King’s seal, and the hand- 
writing was strange to him. 

“Saxe, if you have lied, it will go hard with you, 
understand that. No, I can hear nothing now; to- 
morrow, perhaps, or next day. Monsieur Villon, place 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


237 


him in safety for to-night, he must not be allowed to 
leave the Chateau.” 

“ But, monsieur — monseigneur, I mean — it was the 
King — ” 

“ Hold your tongue, you fool,” said Villon, hustling 
him through the doorway ; “ would you make bad 
worse, or do you want to hang twice over?” 

But even when the door was shut behind them Corn- 
mines stood irresolute. There are times when to be 
alone is the instinct of nature, and this was one of 
them. He felt intuitively that some blow threatened, 
some reverse, a disaster even. Louis’ last letter, re- 
ceived that very day, had been harsh in tone, curt to 
severity, its few words full of a personal complaint 
which his pride had concealed from Stephen La Mothe. 
It had been more than a rebuke, it had been a warn- 
ing, almost a threat. Now upon its heels came this, 
and he knew that of the three who watched him curi- 
ously two were his open enemies. If it was his dis- 
missal, his downfall, there would be no pity. But to 
be alone was impossible. The situation had to be 
faced there and then. “With your permission. Mon- 
seigneur?” he said, and tore the envelope open. 

It was a short letter, as many fateful letters are, and 
Commines read it in a glance, then a second time. 
“ My God ! ” they heard him say twice over, drawing 
in his breath as if an old wound had hurt him sud- 
denly. Half unconsciously his hands crumpled up the 
paper, then as unconsciously smoothed it out again. 
The instinct to be alone had possessed him like a 
prayer, and at times our prayers have a trick of finding 


238 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


an answer in a way we do not expect. The solitari- 
ness he desired had come upon him. He forgot he 
was not alone, and the truest solitude is the isolation 
of the spirit when the material world slips from us, 
and in the presence of the eternal a man is set face to 
face with his own soul. So he stood, the paper shak- 
ing in his shaking hands, his lips moving soundlessly. 
Then he shifted his eyes, and as they fell upon the 
Dauphin, caught in Ursula de Vesc’s arms, the skirt 
of the white robe half wrapped round him, his head 
almost upon her breast, he straightened himself with 
an effort. 

“ Monseigneur,” he began, “ the King ” but the 

words choked in his throat. His coarse, healthy face 
had gone wan and grey, now it flushed and a rush of 
tears filled his eyes. But with an impatient jerk of 
the head he shook them from his cheeks and La Mothe 
saw him struggling for self-control. “The King is 
dead,” he said hoarsely. God have mercy on us all ; 
the King is dead — dead.” 

From the boy his eyes had travelled upwards, follow- 
ing the protecting arm which lay across the slender 
shoulders, and it was Ursula de Vesc who answered. 
Charles had caught her hand in both his and held it 
pressed against his breast. It was clear that he did 
not understand, but the full meaning of the tragedy of 
death is not comprehensible in a single moment, nor 
was the girl’s answer much more than an exclamation. 

“Monsieur d’ArgentonI The King? The King 
dead?” 

“Dead,” he said dully, “the greatest King that 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


239 


France has ever known, the greatest mind that was 
alive in France. In France? In Europe! There 
was none like him — none. A great King, great in 
his foresight, great in his wisdom, great in his love 
for France ; a great King, and he is dead. But yes- 
terday, this very day even, he held the peace of 

nations in the hollow of his hand, now Why, 

how poor a thing is man. Dead I dead I But his 
monument is a great nation, a new France; and who 
shall hold France in her pride of place amongst the 
nations where his dead hand raised her ? Dead ; the 
Great King and my friend.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


“ IT IS A TRAP ” 

This time no one broke the silence, and for a little 
space the quiet was like the reverent stillness of a 
death-chamber. The awe inseparable from sudden 
death possessed them. And yet, after the first shock 
of natural horror. La Mothe was conscious of a great 
relief. Not till then did he realize how tense the 
strain had been, how acute the fear. But at the slow 
dropping of Commines’ bitter-hearted words there 
came a revulsion of feeling, and he was ashamed to 
find a gladness in such a cause of grief. For the 
loss to France he cared little. To him Louis had 
been but a name, the figurehead of state. If not 
Louis, then another, and France would still be France. 
But as Commines turned away and, following that 
other instinct of nature which, in the dumb animal, 
hides its wounds, covered his face with his arms as he 
leaned against the wall, the lad’s heart went out in 
sympathy to the man who had lost his friend. And 
surely over and above his greatness of mind there must 
have been some deep heart of goodness in the^ dead 
man when he moved affection to such a grief. But at 
last the silence came to an end, and again it was Ursula 
de Vesc who spoke. 


240 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


241 


“Monsieur d’Argenton, you will, of course, go to 
Valmy at once? ’’ 

“To Valmy?” Commines brushed his hand across 
his forehead with a characteristic gesture and paused, 
hesitating. “ Why — I — Monseigneur, have you noth- 
ing to say ? ” 

“ What is there to say ? ” answered the boy. “ Do 
you think he loves me any better than he did ? Why 
are you in Amboise at all ? ” 

It was only a bow at a venture, the ill-tempered 
fling of a petulant boy, but the shaft struck home. 
Why was he in Amboise ? His hope was that the full 
purpose of his lengthened stay at the castle would 
never be known, the truth would ruin him with the 
new King, ruin him utterly. Hastily he searched his 
memory how far he had committed himself. Not too 
deeply, he thought, so far as Charles was concerned. 
Ursula de Vesc was of less consequence, and Saxe could 
always be made a scapegoat. Saxe had lied, Saxe had 
deceived him, and, except Stephen La Mothe, no one 
knew how ready he had been to be deceived. Perhaps 
Saxe had also deceived the father ? Yes, he would take 
that line, if necessary ; Saxe was the evil genius of 
them all, but the first essential was to placate the boy 
with a generality. Liars and successful diplomatists 
are rapid thinkers, and no too obvious a silence fol- 
lowed Charles’ blunt question. 

“ Monseigneur, for ten years I have been your father’s 
trusted and faithful servant ” 

“Ursula, I am tired and shall go to bed. Thank 
you, Monsieur La Mothe, but I do not think you need 


242 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


sleep at my door. To-night I shall be safe. All the 
same, I would be Dauphin again if it could bring 
Hugues back. I don’t understand what it means to be 
King ; perhaps in time I shall see the difference. Good 
night, Ursula. I do not know what they were saying 
to you, but they had better leave you in peace. Good 
night. Monsieur La Mothe.” 

“ The King is dead ; long live the King ! and service 
to the dead is soon forgotten,” said Commines bitterly 
as the door closed. The significant ignoring of his 
presence had stung him to the quick. It might be said 
it was only the rudeness of an ill-taught boy, but the 
boy was King of France, and the suggestive omission 
was an evil augury to the hopes of his unsatisfied am- 
bition. 

“ Can you blame him ? He is a very loyal boy, and 
was quite honest when he said he would be the Dauphin 
again if that would bring Hugues back, and as Dauphin 
he has been miserably unhappy.” 

“He is very fortunate in your love, mademoiselle.” 
Commines had never heard Villon’s opinion, but it was 
his own, and he acted upon it promptly. Win the girl 
and the boy will follow. 

“ I loved him for himself and for his unhappiness,” 
she answered simply. “ But will you not return to 
Valmy at once? Surely death does not end all ser- 
vice ! ” 

“ My duty and service are to the living,” replied 
Commines shortly. “ I shall remain in Amboise. The 
dead take no offence.” 

“ You will forgive me if I speak too plainly, Mon- 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


243 


sieur d’Argenton, but the King was so jealous and, 
may I add, so generous, it would vex his ghost to think 
he was so soon forgotten.” 

“ Mademoiselle, I serve France, and to-night France 
is in Amboise.” 

“Is the letter from Coictier, his doctor. Uncle?” 
Hitherto La Mothe had kept silence. He agreed with 
Mademoiselle de Vesc, but found himself in a difficulty. 
In spite of his gratitude and reverence for Commines, 
in spite even of his profound belief in his shrewder, 
sounder judgment, he revolted from this callous oppor- 
tunism which abandoned a dead master for a new 
service without the apparent compunction of a moment. 
Surely the grave should first shut out all that was 
mortal of the old obedience ? And yet, because of that 
unfailing gratitude and profound faith, he could not 
join with the girl in her open condemnation. But 
crumpling the letter anew, Commines shook his head 
as if the question was distasteful. 

“No.” 

“ From the King’s son-in-law. Monsieur de Beaujeu, 
then? He would, of course, send you word immediately. 
Or Leslie ? or Saint-Pierre ? ” 

But after each name Commines made a gesture of 
dissent, pushing the paper into his pocket at the last to 
end the questioning. 

“Not from any of these?” said mademoiselle. 
“ Who, then, has written ? Surely the Dauphin has a 
right to know ? ” 

“Tristan,” answered Commines, and, turning, he 
looked her full in the face. 


244 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“Tristan?” she said icily, drawing herself back 
with a movement which La Mothe recognized by 
an unhappy experience. “ You choose your friends 
strangely.” 

“ But he is no friend,” protested La Mothe, full of 
scorn and indignation for Commines’ sake at the shame 
of the suggestion. “ It would be impossible with such 
a man. And Monsieur de Commines has told me more 
than once that Tristan is jealous of his influence with 
the King, and is his bitterest enemy.” 

“And yet out of all Valmy it is Tristan — and 
Tristan only — who is friend enough to send the terri- 
ble news to Monsieur d’ Argenton ? Is that not strange ? 
Monsieur d’ Argenton, you are a learned man ; is there 
not some proverb about distrusting the Greeks when 
they bring presents ? ” 

“ Tristan would never dare to spread such a report, 
never, never.” 

“But Tristan’s master might. You don’t think so? 
Forgive me if I am suspicious, but can you wonder, you 
of all men? In Amboise we have learned to doubt 
everything, even the friends who are ready to die for 
us,” and, with a sudden impulse, as natural and gra- 
cious as it was touching, she held out her hand to La 
Mothe, a wistful, kindly tenderness, deeper than the 
emotion of gratitude, moistening her eyes. Very 
gravely he stooped and kissed it with a “ Thank God, 
mademoiselle ! ” To say more was unnecessary, for in 
the three words he said everything. It was the formal 
wiping out of the day’s misunderstanding, the knitting 
together of life-threads torn apart, and where there is 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


245 


such a knitting the union is firmer, closer, stronger, 
more indissoluble than before the rent. “Monsieur 
d’Argenton,” she went on, the voice a little tremulous 
and yet with a clearer ring, “once before, when the 
King doubted the loyalty of Paris, did he not spread 
abroad such a rumour that he might test the spirit of 
the people ? ” 

“ Yes, but there was a deep policy in that.” 

“ And is there no deep policy now ! Is it for a 
shallow reason you have spent two weeks in Amboise, 
or that J ean Saxe has coined his lies with such care- 
fulness of detail ? May we hear Tristan’s letter ? ” 

For a moment Commines hesitated. He had re- 
gained his full self-control, and it was with a growing 
surprise that La Mothe heard him debate the situation 
with Ursula de Vesc as with an equal. But not only 
was he impressed in spite of his prejudice against her, 
but he was too shrewd a politician to put aside any 
suggestion which commended itself to his reason just 
because he despised its source. And the girl was 
right. If there had been a deep policy in setting afloat 
the Paris rumour, there was a yet deeper policy now, a 
policy more subtle, darker, and pregnant with tragedy. 
Belief in the King’s death might well loosen the tongues 
of those who had plotted against him, and their un- 
guarded triumph furnish the very confirmation which 
had been vainly sought in Amboise these ten days. 
While he hesitated Ursula de Vesc urged her point 
afresh. 

“Monsieur d’Argenton, in the Dauphin’s name I 
might claim to see the letter, I might even demand and 


246 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


compel it as a right ; but there will be no need for 
that? ” 

“No need at all,” he answered. “ This is the letter. 
As you see, it is very short : 

“‘Monsieur, — A great misfortune has overtaken 
us, the greatest possible. The King is dead. It is be- 
ing kept secret, but I send you the warning that you 
may make yourself secure in Amboise. Note carefully 
how the Dauphin takes it. I commend you to the 
keeping of God. — Tristan.’ 

You see it is explicit.” 

“And Saxe was explicit, but he lied.” She was too 
much of a woman to spare him the thrust, but it was 
the only revenge she took, and having taken it, she sat 
silent, her brows knit, her fingers playing unconsciously 
with Charlemagne’s soft ears. The dog’s head was on 
her lap, motionless, the gentle brown eyes fixed upon 
her face. Chariot lay asleep at her feet, breathing 
little heavy breaths of contentment, as if enough of his 
brain was awake to enjoy the sleep of the remainder. 

“Yes,” she said slowly, “I agree that the King’s 
Provost-Marshal is explicit, but I do not read his letter 
as you do. Perhaps it is because Amboise has made 
me so suspicious. It is a sorrowful thing to say, but 
we have been taught that safety lies in distrust of 
Valmy. It is horrible, but it is not our fault, and I 
distrust now. Tristan is your enemy and ours. The 
King, the great King, is not above setting a trap. I 
think I see a double snare ; a snare to catch the Dau- 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


247 


phin, to catch all who are his friends in Amboise, and 
a snare to catch the great King’s minister himself. 
Perhaps it is foolish, I know it is presumptuous, but 
let me read the letter my own way ; you can show me 
afterwards where I am wrong. It is clever, but it is 
the cleverness of the man who thinks only of his own 
interests, who makes no allowance for love, loyalty, or 
single-hearted duty, and judges others by himself. Is 
that your great King, Monsieur d’Argenton?” and 
Commines, answering nothing, recognized the life-like- 
ness of the portrait. 

“ But no ! ” she went on, “ your great King is dead, 
the letter says so, and this is your friend Tristan who 
sends you the warning that you may make yourself 
secure in Amboise! What does that mean? You 
know that better than I, but I suppose it means that, 
first in the field, you may win the Dauphin’s confidence 
and govern France through the boy. That is a great 
gift from an enemy. Monsieur d’Argenton, and what 
would the King say if he were alive? But the King 
is dead I Then why are you to note carefully how the 
Dauphin takes the news? For whose benefit are you 
to note it? For your own? But you are to make 
yourself secure in Amboise I For Tristan’s? But how 
does it touch Tristan? For the King, who is dead? 
That is absurd. For the King, who is alive? for the 
King, who dictates the letter that he may lay hold of 
some chance word and torture it into God knows what 
vile use against the boy? Bear witness, gentlemen, 
both of you, there was no such word. And what is 
the ending of the letter? He commends you to the 


248 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


keeping of God! Tristan, the hangman, commends 
Monsieur d’Argenton to the keeping of God. There 
will be much need for His keeping if you make your- 
self secure in Amboise while the King lives. Do you 
not smell the King’s unctuous, perverted religiosity in 
that sentence. Monsieur d’Argenton? It is a snare, a 
snare for us all, and if I were you I would ride to 
Valmy this very hour, though I foundered a dozen 
horses on the road. Monsieur La Mothe, am I not 
right? ” 

“Entirely right,” said La Mothe heartily. He 
might have gone further and, following the prece- 
dent set by Adam in Eden, have said, “ Eternally 
right I ” for what lover ever thought his mistress in the 
wrong ? But this time there was more than a lover’s 
agreement. “ Uncle, surely you see that Mademoiselle 
de Vesc is right, right every way? If that scoundrel 
has lied, then there is a trap set, but if it is the truth, 
surely your place is at Valmy ? ” 

“Why? ” asked Com mines, but as he spoke he read 
the letter afresh, weighing each sentence separately. 
“ Why not at Amboise? ” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


COMMINES TAKES ADVICE 

Respect kept La Mothe silent. How could he say 
bluntly, ‘ You owe everything you possess in the world 
to the man who is dead — position, title, office, wealth. 
Are these forgotten ? ’ In his embarrassment he glanced 
at Ursula de Vesc. Owing Commines neither respect 
nor gratitude, she had no such scruple. 

“ Death is always terrible,” she said softly, “ or we 
make it terrible by our own terrors, but there will be a 
new terror added if love and the loyalty of gratitude 
die with the life. Is eaten bread so soon forgotten. 
Monsieur d’Argenton ? ” 

Almost abstractedly Commines looked up from the 
paper in his hand. If he heard her, he gave no sign of 
having heard; certainly he showed no resentment at 
the implied censure. His mind was busy balancing 
prospects and possibilities. If Charles were king, Ur- 
sula de Vesc would be a power behind the throne. If, 
as she said, Louis — and not for the first time — played 
one of his grim jests full of a sinister possibility, to 
remain at Amboise would be fatal both to himself and 
to the boy. The King might say the Dauphin grasped 
at the crown while the father lived, and Philip de Com- 
mines abetted him. After all, Valmy was safest. Not 
249 


250 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


many days before, Louis bad told him with brutal frank- 
ness that the hand which pulled him from the gutter 
could fling him back again. Yes, Valmy was safest. 
But what account was he to give of his mission ? The 
letter, whether false in its news or true, was a suffi- 
cient reason for his return. It was most natural, 
human, and loving that the faithful servant should 
stand by the bier of his dead master. It would even 
be a point in his favour if the King lived. No doubt 
Tristan had said, ‘ Test him and he will go over to the 
Dauphin.’ Well, he would give Tristan the lie and 
prove that Louis came first, living or dead. Yes, 
Valmy was safest. 

But his mission? For the time it had failed. Saxe, 
as Stephen had said, had proved too much. He must 
make Saxe the scapegoat. The obvious lie damned 
him. It was crass stupidity to put into Hugues’ 
mouth a lie which carried its own disproof with it. To 
force an accusation based upon the remainder of the 
story would be unpolitic. His best course would be to 
relieve the King of all his fears at Amboise. There 
was no plot, the Dauphin was loyal and obedient : not 
affectionate, that would be proving too much like the 
fool Saxe, and Louis would never believe it. Then 
there was the King’s letter to Saxe. It must not be 
forgotten. That shrewd rascal, Villon, was right when 
he said some one had sounded Saxe, only the some one 
was not Hugues the valet. The letter must be ignored, 
or, better still, it might even help to make his — Corn- 
mines’ — position more secure than ever. It was Louis’ 
habit to disavow his failures. He would, of course, 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


251 


repudiate Saxe and disavow the mission to Amboise, 
and because of the disavowal he would, openly at least, 
welcome the Dauphin’s loyalty. That was Louis’ way. 
Yes, Valmy was safest. 

“ I must leave Amboise at once,” he said at last, and 
speaking as if the intention had always been in his 
mind. “ If this misfortune has overtaken us all, which 
God forbid, we must meet it with courage and resig- 
nation. May He who alone is able comfort the bereaved 
son of so good and so great a father. My hope and 
prayer, mademoiselle, is that you are right and the 
King is making trial of our love and loyalty. In either 
case my place is at Valmy. La Mothe, order a horse 
to be saddled without delay.” 

“ There is one ready in Saxe’s stable,” answered La 
Mothe. Then, lest he should be asked the unpleasant 
question how he came by that knowledge and for what 
purpose the horse was in readiness, he added hastily, 
“ What shall we do with Saxe ? ” 

“Keep Saxe safe until you hear from Valmy; let 
no one but Villon or yourself have speech with him. 
Such a liar would calumniate the King himself. Now, 
Stephen, the horses in ten minutes.” 

“Horses?” said La Mothe blankly. Was he also 
to leave Amboise now that a new dawn was breaking ? 

“Yes, tell two of my men to be ready. I do not 
trust Tristan, and will take no risks. An accident 
might happen to a lonely man on an all-night’s ride.” 

“ And yet,” said the girl as La Mothe left the room, 
“you were ready to trust Tristan ten minutes ago ? ” 

“But you have opened my eyes. Why? That is 


252 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


the one thing I cannot understand. We have always 
been opposed, always at enmity, and never more bitterly 
than to-night. Mademoiselle de Vesc, why did you 
not take your revenge and let me ruin myself ? ” 

“ I might give you a woman’s reason and say. Be- 
cause ! ” she answered, speaking more lightly than she 
had yet spoken ; then as she paused a moment the pale 
face flushed, and the beginnings of a smile played about 
the mouth, only to die away in a tender gravity. “ And 
yet, to tell the truth, it was a woman’s reason : it was 
because there was once a friendless, helpless boy, and 
Philip de Commines — you were neither Argenton nor 
Talmont then, monsieur — opened his heart to him.” 

“But, mademoiselle, to be honest, that was for a 
woman’s sake.” 

“And,” she answered, the flush deepening and the 
gentle tenderness of mouth and eyes growing yet more 
tender, “ to be honest, this is for a man’s sake.” 

Again there was silence, and in the quiet the two 
who had been enemies, and might be again for the same 
cause, drew into a closer, better comprehension upon a 
common ground. At heart they were akin — the politic 
unscrupulous opportunist vowed to the compulsion of 
his ambitions, and the girl who through all her threat 
of danger had given no thought to herself. For the 
sake of the man ; for the sake of the woman : they are 
the twin cogwheels, working the one into the other, 
which keep this great machine of life, this sordid 
material world, upon a sure, if slow, ascent from the 
baser to the nobler, from the kingdoms of this world 
to the glory of the Kingdom which is to come. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


253 


“ A good lad,” said Commines at last, speaking as a 
man speaks who is moved in his depths. “ Simple in 
his faith, simple in his reverence for the best as he 
understands it, simple in his simpleness of heart : a lad 
so loyal that he can see no disloyalty in others. God 
bless him for a good lad. He came here a boy, but 
Amboise has made a man of him — Amboise and you 
together.” It was Francois Yillon’s second birth over 
again, but in different words. “ Mademoiselle, it will 
be my charge to commend him to the King.” 

“ For God’s sake, no ! ” she burst out. “ Leave him 
the man he is. Monsieur d’Argenton, leave him his 
simplicity of faith. Commend him to the King? I 
would rather he ploughed the^ fields for bread than 
served your King. Here he is. Good-bye, Monsieur 
d’Argenton, may you find all well at Valmy; good 
night. Monsieur La Mothe, we shall meet again in the 
morning, or is it already the new day?” and with a 
smiling curtsy to each she was gone. To Stephen La 
Mothe it seemed a cold good night after all that had 
come and gone between them that day, the misunder- 
stood question in her work-room, the shadow of death 
in the Burnt Mill, and, above all, their nearness as he 
had stood behind her chair. But she had her pur- 
pose. She might spare Philip de Commines, she might 
even forgive him, but she would not touch his hand in 
friendship. 

In silence Commines returned to his room. La Mothe 
following ; in silence made himself ready for the road ; 
in silence they both went together to the great gate 
and passed without. Perhaps it was that each felt the 


254 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


need of quiet to adjust his thoughts. But once the 
heavy door, bolted and studded with iron, had clanged 
behind them, and the stars were clear overhead, 
Commines linked his arm with La Mothe’s, drawing 
him close with the affectionate equality and confidence 
of the old days when they were father and son, brother 
and brother, friend and friend in one. Let their union 
in blood be what it may, it is the most perfect relation- 
ship man and man can know, and differs from the 
sweeter, more tender relationship of man and woman in 
that nothing is sought, nothing granted. 

“Stephen, lad, we have been at odds, you and I, and 
it has hurt us both, but that’s over. I think we were 
both to blame. Perhaps I have grown old, and so for- 
got that youth must have its day ; perhaps you could 
not understand my duty to the King, or how, when a 
man is ridden by a dominant purpose, he must go 
straight forward and make or break a way to the end. 
And yet you were doing something of the same your- 
self. With you it was love in duty ; with me, duty in 
love. For, Stephen, make no mistake. Notwithstand- 
ing what it shames me to remember, I love and rev- 
erence the King as the truest friend France has. May 
God spare him to France until the boy has grown to be 
a man. Woe to thee, O land, when thy King is a child. 
Henceforward I think the Dauphin has nothing to fear ; 
all that man can do to draw father to son and son to 
father I will do. Stephen, your mission here is 
ended.” 

But in the darkness La Mothe shook his head ; this 
was the real Philip de Commines, the Commines he had 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


255 


known and loved. The crust of selfishness which over- 
lies the heart of every man given overmuch to one pur- 
pose, even the most honourable, had broken up, and the 
generous warmth of the kindly nature within asserted 
itself. To suck an one La Mothe could speak as he 
could not speak to the shrewd politician or the leader 
of men. 

“Not ended yet. Uncle. With you I pray the King 
still lives, and that is more than I could honestly have 
said in the Hercules room yonder with Saxe spinning 
his lies. Tell him that within twelve hours I shall have 
fulfilled to the very letter the orders he gave me. W atch 
him as you tell him, you who are so shrewd a judge of 
men, and I think you will say that to draw the father 
to the son will not be difiicult.” 

“ You believe that, Stephen?” 

“ I know it. Uncle ; but here are the horses.” With 
no more words La Mothe assisted Commines to mount, 
standing by his knee as he settled himself in the saddle. 
Then Commines stooped and the two men clasped hands. 

“ God keep you, Stephen.” 

“And you, too, and may all be well at Valmy,” an- 
swered La Mothe earnestly, and added impulsively, 
“ Uncle, have you nothing to say to me ?” 

“ Only this, Stephen, thank God for a good woman,” 
and with a last pressure of the hand Commines rode on 
into the darkness, his two guards a length behind him. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


THE SUCCESS OF FAILURE 

For once in his career Phillip de Commines, ambas- 
sador and diplomatist, was well pleased to have failed, or 
rather, paradoxically, he told himself that failure was 
his true success. The King — he had come to the con- 
clusion that Louis had played one of those grim jests 
which were not all a jest and at times had tragic conse- 
quences — the King, no doubt, had been deceived, pos- 
sibly by Saxe, and to have Saxe proved a liar beyond 
question could not but be a relief. So all was well; 
the King’s fears could be set at rest, and he himself was 
freed from an odious duty. Against his expectation 
he had quitted Amboise with clean hands. 

Nor even as regards the Dauphin, and the future the 
Dauphin represented, was there much to regret. There 
was even, he believed, much to hope. Ursula de Vesc 
controlled the boy, Stephen La Mothe would influ- 
ence the girl, and Stephen owed him everything. These 
were all so many links in a chain, and the chain bound 
him not only to safety but to continuance in his present 
offices, perhaps even to advancement. Even though 
the King had died there was no need to remain in Am- 
boise to secure himself; La Mothe would do that for 
him. But the King was living, the King would wel- 
come his failure, would be touched by his prompt return 
256 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


257 


to Valmy, and the world was a very good world for 
those who knew how to use its hazards and chances 
rightly. 

The stern justice of the King had swept the high- 
ways clear of violence. According to a grim jest of 
Villon’s, thieves and thievery were alike in suspense from 
Burgundy to the sea. Except the ruts of the road, 
deep in places as the axles of a cart, or the turbid 
waters of the Loire, treacherous in the darkness and 
swollen by heavy rains in the upper reaches, travelling 
was as safe by night as by day, and Commines met with 
no delays but those at all times inseparable from such 
a journey. Tristan’s forethought, as it proved, had 
provided no accident. This time there was no halt at 
the Chateau-Renaud. Through the little straggling 
village they rode at a hand-gallop, and except to bait 
or breathe the horses on a hill-crest, no rein was drawn 
until the dawn had slipped from grey to glory and a 
new day lay broad upon the fields. When that hour 
broke, they had made such progress that they had 
reached the place whence Commines had shown La 
Mothe the three good reasons why his men would keep 
their counsel. 

“ Dismount and ease the saddles,” he said, slipping a 
foot from the stirrup as he spoke, “ the gates will not 
be opened for two or three hours at least. Lead the 
horses on slowly, I will follow you.” 

But he was in no haste. In the small hours of the 
morning the currents of enthusiasm, like those of life, 
run slow. It is then that the spirit of a man is at its 
weakest. Or perhaps it was the sight of Valmy that 


258 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


cooled his optimism. There it lay, grey and forbidding 
even with the yellow sunlight of dawn full upon it, and 
there, stark and clear, an offence against the sweetness 
of the new day, were the three royal gibbets. Their 
sinister hint was emphatic. The justice of the King 
was without mercy, and sombrely he asked himself. Was 
he so sure that in his failure he had no need of forgive- 
ness? Was it not rather true that with Louis failure 
had always need of forgiveness and was never forgiven ? 
He was not so certain, now that his blood was sluggish 
in the vapoury chill of dawn, but that he had been hasty 
in quitting Amboise at all ; and yet, what if Tristan, 
playing on the jealous suspicions of the King, had set 
a trap? And even as he speculated with dull eyes 
whether there was a trap or no, whether the King lived 
at all, and what course was the most politic to follow, 
a stir of life woke at Valmy: a small troop passed out 
from the grey arch facing the river and took the Tours 
road. The distance was too great to distinguish who 
comprised it. But Valmy was awake, and with Valmy 
awake the sooner he faced his doubts the better — 
doubts grow by nursing, and given time enough their 
weight will kill. 

Walking briskly forward he mounted and urged his 
tired horse to its best speed. That it should reach 
Valmy in its last extremity, foam-flecked and caked 
with sweat, would appeal to the King’s sick suspicions. 
It was a petty trick, mean and contemptible, but had 
the King not played a still more mean and contemptible 
trick on him ? Commines knew with whom he had to 
deal ; it was the vulgar cunning his master had taught 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


259 


him, and any apparent absence of anxious haste would 
be a point lost in the game : so their spurs were red, 
and their beasts utterly blown, utterly weary from their 
last climb up the river’s bank when they drew rein 
before the outer guard-house. The Tours troop was 
already out of sight. 

Lessaix himself was on duty, and as he came forward 
with outstretched hand Commines required no second 
glance to tell himself that Ursula de Vesc had con- 
strued Tristan’s letter aright. Not so frankly would 
he have been greeted if Valmy’s master lay dead in 
Valmy. 

“The King expects you,” he said, “and by your 
horses’ looks you have lost no time on the road.” As 
he spoke he ran his finger-tips up the hot neck, leaving 
tracks of roughened, sweaty hair behind the pressure. 
“ When did you leave Amboise ? ” 

“ The King expects me ? How can that be ? ” 
Then as Lessaix, scenting a mystery, looked up curi- 
ously Commines made haste to cover his slip, “ Or 
rather, how did you know I was coming ? ” 

“Tristan told me as he rode out half an hour ago. 
He said you were on the way and might arrive any 
moment. You are to go to the King at once.” 

“ So Tristan left half an hour ago ? ” 

Try as he would Commines could not quite control 
his voice. He owed more to Mademoiselle de Vesc 
than he had supposed. The trap had, as it were, 
snapped before his face and he had escaped by a hair- 
breadth. Tristan’s cunning was as deep as simplicity. 
His forethought must have run somewhat thus. Les- 


260 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


saix knows that Monsieur de Commines is expected any 
moment and is to go at once to the King, who waits for 
him ; Monsieur de Commines does not appear, but re- 
mains paying his court to the Dauphin at Amboise. 
The inference would be clear to all men, and Monsieur 
de Commines would be ruined outright and utterly dis- 
credited. Yes, Ursula de Vesc had saved him from 
downfall, or worse. 

Lessaix, watchful as every man was who called Louis 
master, caught the change of tone and again looked 
up, but this time with something more than curios- 
ity — an anxious wariness, a fear lest some current of 
events he failed to discover might catch him in its 
flood and drag him down with its undertow unawares. 

“ Monsieur de Commines,” he said earnestly, laying 
a hand on Commines’ bridle-rein as they passed at a 
foot’s pace under the archway, “ we have always been 
friends, always good comrades, is there — ” he hesi- 
tated, uncertain how far he dared commit himself with 
his good friend and comrade, “ is there anything wrong 
— astray — here, or at Amboise ? ” 

“The Dauphin is well, and it is you who should 
have the news of Valmy. I know nothing but that 
the King sent for me in haste. Some question of new 
taxation, perhaps ; or it may be that England threatens 
to break the peace. What did Tristan say ? ” 

“Nothing but what I tell you, but he laughed as he 
said it. If I were you, I would not delay, but would 
go to the King booted and spurred and dusty as you 
are.” 

Commines nodded. The advice was welcome, not 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


261 


only because it was meant kindly but for what it 
inferred. If disgrace threatened, Lessaix at least had 
no knowledge of it. 

“The messenger who left two days ago, has he 
returned ? ” 

“Not yet; there was another yesterday.” 

“ I know. Who is on guard ? ” 

“Beaufoy, and the password is Amboise.” 

Again Commines nodded. Beaufoy ? That, too, was 
all in his favour. Beaufoy was one of the younger 
men and not at all in the King’s confidence. If Louis 
had any sinister coup in his mind, Leslie, or Saint- 
Pierre, or Lessaix himself would have been on duty. 

With an alert, quick step, that had in it none of the 
stiffness or fatigue of a long night’s ride, Commines 
mounted the stairs, answering friendly salutes at every 
turn. As at all times with the King in residence, the 
halls, corridors, and ante-rooms were like those of a 
barrack rather than of a royal chateau. Here and 
there he was challenged and his way barred by a 
lowered halbert, but it was more or less perfunctory, 
and at the password the way was cleared. That Beaufoy 
was unfeignedly glad to see him was another satisfac- 
tion. Ever since he had come in sight of Valmy an 
uncomfortable sense of friendlessness had haunted him 
with the unreasoning horror of a nightmare, and Beau- 
foy’s welcoming smile was like the wakening into sun- 
shine. 

merci! but I am thankful you have come,” 
he said, but speaking softly so that no sounds passed 
through the curtained door at his back. “Four times 


262 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


within the hour the King has sent asking for you. It 
is like the cry of one of his own parrots, ‘ Commines ! 
Where is Commines ? ’ ” 

“ Who have seen him this morning ? ” 

“ His two janitors of the eternal, if it be no sin to say 
so — the priest and Tristan. Fortune keep their last 
ministrations far from me ! ” 

“Then the King is awake?” said Commines, un- 
buckling his sword-belt and handing it to Beaufoy. 

“ Awake, but in bed as a good Christian ought to be 
at this time of day. Faith ! Monsieur d’Argenton, 
you are in fortune’s pocket ; four times within the hour 
he has asked for you — four times, as I’m a starving 
sinner without a hope of breakfast.” 

“ The better appetite later ! ” Letting the curtains 
fall behind him Commines pushed the door open softly, 
closed it softly at his back, and advanced a step. But 
in spite of the caution of his quiet Louis heard him. 

“ What’s that ? Who’s there ? Beaufoy — Beau- 
foy ” 

“Sire, it is I — Commines.” 

“ Commines ! ” he repeated, the sharpness of his 
frightened voice dwindling breathlessly. “ Commines, 
Philip, what — what news from Amboise ? ” 

“ The very best. Sire.” 

“ The very best ! Ah, God, my son ! my son ! 
The very best? Oh, France! France! Philip, tell 
me — tell me your news. But is the door shut — shut 
fast?” 

Through a prolonged life Commines never forgot 
that scene and never answered, never dared to answer, 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


263 


even in the secret of his own mind, the question, What 
news from Amboise was the very best ? 

A single shutter had been drawn half aside, and in 
the semi-obscurity the chalk-grey face of the King 
showed ghost-like against the vaulted darkness of the 
curtained bed. The fret of spirit through these ten or 
twelve days had sapped him, worn him like so many 
days of consuming fever. With one hand, the elbow 
propped upon the coverlid, he pushed the draperies 
aside, the other was fumbling with its finger-tips at his 
convulsed mouth. In impatience, or that he might 
breathe the freer, the ribbons which knotted his woollen 
nightrobe at the throat had been unfastened, leaving 
the lean, parchment-coloured chest and throat, corded 
with starting sinews, nakedly open. As he leant 
aslant, the curtains arching overhead, his eyes roundly 
open in the shadows of their sockets, he was like a 
corpse new risen from its tomb and full of horror from 
the dreams which had dogged its sleep. 

“ The very best I Tell me everything, Philip. Or, 
no ! ” The shaking hand ceased plucking at the lip, 
and the shrunken arm, bare to the elbow where the 
gown had slipped, was thrust out, beating the air as if 
to push aside some terror. “Tell me the one — the 
essential God’s name, man ! can you not under- 

stand? ” 

“The best news possible. Sire.” Commines’ eyes 
were growing accustomed to the gloom and no detail 
escaped him. “The Dauphin is innocent, is loving 
— loyal.” 

The King shrank as if he had been struck and the 


264 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


cadaverous face grew yet more ghastly. Shifting un- 
easily on his elbow he pushed the curtains wide apart, 
rasping the rings sharply on the rod, and drawing back 
his hand fumbled anew at his mouth. 

“Loving, loyal — living.” There was a perceptible 
pause, and the third word was harsher, drier than the 
others, and spoken with a jerk as if forced from the 
throat under compulsion. “ You received my letter 
written two days ago ? ” 

“Yes, Sire, and a second last night. Thank God, 
with all my heart, it ” 

“ Let it wait. The messenger of two days ago, has 
he come back ? ” 

“Not yet. I asked Lessaix.” 

“Why?” 

“Idle curiosity. Sire.” 

“ Only fools are curious for nothing, and you are no 
fool, or were not when you left to go to Amboise.” 
He paused, and in the silence Commines searched his 
wit for some plausible reason for the question he had 
put to Lessaix. But Louis probed no further. To 
hear the truth would have suited his purpose no better 
than it would have suited Commines to tell it. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


PHILIP DE COMMINES, DIPLOMATIST 

CoMMiNES broke the silence with a bold stroke. 
“He carried more letters than yours, Sire. A man 
named Saxe ” 

“ Saxe ? ” said Louis, drawling the word. “ Who is 
Saxe?” 

“ An innkeeper in Amboise. Yesterday, an hour or 
two after I had received Your Majesty’s letter, he came 
to me with a lying tale.” 

“ What sort of reputation has this Saxe ? ” 

“ He is an innkeeper.” 

“ An innkeeper ? Innkeepers are decent folk. Trav- 
ellers trust them nightly with their property, with 
their lives even. There is no discredit in innkeeping. 
You know. Monsieur d’Argenton, I do not hold that 
honesty and honour are the prerogatives of the nobility. 
This Saxe, now, what was his tale? ” 

“ One, Sire, that if true would have plunged all 
France into sorrow, and you into the deepest grief of 
all. He accused the Dauphin, a girl named Ursula de 
Vesc, and one Hugues, the Dauphin’s valet, of plotting 
against Your Majesty.” 

“Philip, Philip, did I not say so? I thought you 
understood when you left Valmy. Did I not tell you 
265 


266 


THE JUSTICE OP THE KING 


to sift, and search, and find? Now comes this Saxe, a 
decent, reputable man ” 

“ Sire, Saxe lied.” 

“ Lied ? ” Loosing the curtain Louis slipped back 
upon his pillows, huddled in a shapeless heap, his hands 
clenched upon his breast, his chin sunk upon their 
clasp so that the mouth was hidden. Only the eyes, 
dull but with a sombre glow in the dullness, seemed 
alive. “ Who says Saxe lies ? ” 

“All who heard him. Sire.” 

“ What? There were witnesses ? ” 

“There was need of witnesses for the sake of the 
publicity afterwards.” 

“ Um ! I do not say you were wrong, but it has 
turned out badly. Well ? ” 

“Saxe proved too much. He swore the Dauphin 
quoted Molembrais’ death as a reason why all France 

was ” Commines paused, fearing to offend by an 

unpalatable truth, but Louis ended the sentence for 
him. 

“ Why France was afraid. Well, that was probable. 
I see no lie in that.” 

“ No, Sire ; but Saxe fixed the day definitely, and 
Molembrais was alive at the time.” 

The King’s hands slipped to his lap and he sank yet 
further into the pillows. He was breathing heavily, 
and from old experience Commines knew that he con- 
trolled his fury of anger only by an effort and because 
Coictier, his physician, had warned him that any out- 
break of violent emotion might be fatal. 

“ Oh, the fool ! the — the — the — I must be calm. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


267 


May all the devils — no, I must be calm, I must con- 
trol myself ; my miserable, wretched heart — but to be 
cursed with such a fool, such a fool ! ” 

“ A scoundrel, Sire, rather than a fool ; a villainous, 
lying scoundrel, who would traduce the Dauphin him- 
self. Let us thank God he overreached himself and 
his lie is found out. Let us rejoice that the Prince 
your son is innocent of all blame, is loving and loyal. 
Let us publicly, promptly stamp Saxe for the liar he 
has proved himself to be, lest he malign the King him- 
self. Sire, if I may speak freely, it is now the one 
course possible.” 

“Eh, Philip? What was that? Accuse the King 
himself ? Accuse me — me ? Of what, Philip, of 
what? Where is this Saxe? In whose keeping? 
Monsieur d’Argenton, have you been imprudent — 
careless ? By God ! you shall answer for it if this liar 
of a Saxe spits his poison at me — at me. No, Philip, 
I do not mean just that. Yes, we rejoice that he has 
lied, rejoice that the Dauphin is the loving and loyal 
son of his loving father. We owe you much, France 
owes you much for this news. Yes, we rejoice — we 
rejoice — God knows how we rejoice! Philip, the 
cordial — there, on the table — that crystal flask. This 
joyful emotion is killing me.” 

Half filling a cup from the flask Louis had pointed 
at with a hand which faltered and fluttered in the air a 
moment, then fell lifeless on the bedclothing, Commines 
stooped over the King, holding it to his mouth. At 
first the lips sucked a few drops slowly, then more 
rapidly. As the strength of the liquor reached the 


268 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


heart the labouring of the chest quieted, the leaden 
dullness of the cheeks took on some semblance of life, 
and the eyes brightened. The spasm had passed, but 
for a moment it had seemed to Commines that Tristan’s 
letter had, at worst, been prophetic. Motioning that 
he had drunk sufficient, Louis closed his eyes, laying 
his head back upon the pillows that he might rest the 
easier. But there was no rest for the busy brain. His 
eyes still closed he beckoned to Commines to stoop 
lower. 

“ Saxe — where is Saxe ? ” 

“In safe keeping. Sire.” 

“ Safe ? He cannot talk ? ” 

“ Quite safe. Only La Mothe and Villon visit him.” 

“La Mothe? Faugh! another fool. There is no 
end to the breed. I think God made them as He made 
flies, to be the fret and plague of life. You vouched 
for the fool, Philip, remember that.” 

“ And I still vouch for La Mothe,” answered Com- 
mines. He felt that he was now safe, so safe that he 
might even venture to plead for Stephen. “ Consider, 
Sire, you who are so just, is it the boy’s fault that we 
failed to discover what does not exist? Remember, 
Saxe lied, lied throughout, and has always lied.” He 
paused, but if he expected to draw some further com- 
ment from the King, he failed. Louis lay silent, his 
face void of expression, and Commines went on : “ That 
cruel jest the Provost-Marshal played upon us all cut 
me to the heart. Sire, Sire, how could you permit it ? 
All night long I have ridden from Amboise in despair 
and bitter grief, despair for France hopelessly bereaved 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 269 

of SO good and true a friend, so great a King. The 
awful shock ” 

“ There, there, no more of that,” said Louis harshly. 
The reminder of the grim, inevitable certainty which 
had lately been so significantly near was more than he 
could bear. With an effort he struggled on his elbow, 
pushing himself upright. “ See ! it was all a jest. I am 
strong — stronger than for years. Coictier says so ; 
but he says, too, that I should rest, so I will lie back 
again. Yes, yes, a jest — and yet not all a jest.” From 
under his drooped lids he looked up at Commines, 
watching him narrowly in the grey light. “ Charles, 
what did Charles say ? Charles, who is so loving and 
loyal. Laughed and thanked God — eh, Philip ?” 

“No, Sire, no. For the moment he seemed struck 
dumb, as we all were. True grief is silent. When 
sorrow is at its sorest, words do not come easily, and 
never have I seen so bitter a sorrow as the Dauphin’s 
last night.” Which was true, for Hugues, who had 
loved him, lay dead. And Hugues’ death gave Com- 
mines another inspiration, which, because of the end 
in view, he seized upon without a scruple. “ But when 
at last words came they were worthy of him, worthy 
of his loyalty both as son and subject. ‘I would be 
Dauphin again,’ said he, ‘if I could but bring him 
back.’ ” 

Twisting himself round upon his pillows Louis 
caught Commines by the arm with a greater strength 
than had seemed possible in one so frail, caught him 
and held him, and if the hand shook, it was not from 
weakness. 


270 


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“ He said that ? Charles said that ? Who prompted 
him ? ” 

“No one, Sire. He spoke his own thought frankly, 
and every word he said came from his heart.” 

“ Philip, as God fives, is that true ? ” 

“ As God lives,” said Commines deliberately, “ these 
were the Dauphin’s very words, and he spoke them 
from his heart. No one prompted him, no one led 
him ; they were his own thoughts, his only.” 

With a deep breath which might have been a sigh 
or a moan Louis lay back. His eyes were closed, but 
his whole air had changed : the lips were firm-pressed 
in a thin line, the fingers no longer plucked at this 
or that in a nervous attempt to hide their nervousness 
by a pretence at animation, and from long experience 
Commines knew that he had forced himself to some 
unusual effort at concentrated thought. But the out- 
come of the thought surprised and disappointed the 
watcher. 

“La Mothe?” 

“ Sire, I vouch for La Mothe.” 

“ God’s name, Philip, has the fool nothing to say for 
himself ? ” 

“I had forgotten. To-day’s blessed relief drove it 
from my head. Can you blame me, Sire, if I forgot 
everything but my joy ? Last night, as I left Amboise, 
he said, ‘ Pray Heaven the King still lives. Tell him 
that within twelve hours I shall have fulfilled the 
order he gave me.’” 

“ Twelve hours ? Twelve hours ? Philip, by your sal- 
vation, have you told me the truth to-day ? Charles ? 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


271 


My son ? That he said those things ? More hangs on 
it than you can guess. As you love me, Philip, and as 
I have made you what you are, do not deceive me.” 

“Most true, Sire; I would plead for the Dau- 
phin ” 

“ Plead ? What need have you to plead, you or any 
man? Plead? Your officiousness goes too far. Is he 
not my son ? Who is on duty ? ” 

“Beaufoy, Sire.” 

“Pray God there is time. Send Beaufoy to me — 
now, this very instant. Go, man, go ! Why do you 
stand staring there like a wax image ? Oh ! pray 
God there is time. Send Beaufoy — do you not hear? 
Send Beaufoy, send Beaufoy this instant ! Beaufoy ! 
Beaufoy ! And, Philip, have the fastest horse in 
Valmy saddled and ready. Go, Philip, go! Make 
haste, for the love of Heaven, make haste ! Beau- 
foy I Beaufoy I ” 

Uncomprehending, but terror-shaken at the sudden 
outburst which filled Louis’ frail body with passion, 
Commines hastened to the door. He thought he had 
sounded all his master’s shifting moods, but this agony 
of a fear not for himself, this pathos of horror, was new 
to him. Dimly he understood that the antagonism to 
the Dauphin had broken down finally and for ever. La 
Mothe was right, it had not been so hard to draw the 
father to the son. But why call for Beaufoy ? Why 
such anxiety of haste ? Why that scream of fear in the 
voice ? Beyond the door stood Beaufoy, perplexed and 
startled. 

“ The King — go to him.” 


272 


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“111? Dying?” 

“ No, he needs you. Go at once — at once,” answered 
Comraines, with a jerk of his head, and was gone. 

“ You called me. Sire ? ” 

“ Pen — ink — paper. There, on the table. Quicker, 
dolt, quicker ! ” 

But with the quill between his fingers and the paper 
flattened on a pad against his knee, Louis was in no 
haste to write. Gnawing with unconscious savagery 
at his under-lip he stared into vacancy, searching, 
searching, searching for the precise words to express 
his thought. But they eluded him. It was not so 
simple to be precise, so clear that even a fool like 
Beaufoy could not make a mistake, and yet be so 
cautious that the true purpose, the inner meaning of 
the order, would not betray him. Commines’ voice was 
clanging in his ears like the clapper of a bell, and 
would not let him think coherently. Twelve hours ! 
Twelve hours ! Even now — no, not yet, but soon, very 
soon, it might be too late. “ Perdition I ” he cried, 
striking his hand upon the woollen coverlid — he was 
chilly even in May — “ will they never come ? ” 

And at last they came, not what satisfied him, but 
what perforce must suffice, and with a hand marvel- 
lously steady under the compulsion of the iron will he 
dashed off two or three sentences at white heat, added 
his signature in the bold, angular characters which had 
so often vouched a lie as the truth, and flung the paper 
across to Beaufoy. 

“There! obey that, neither more nor less. Your 
horse is waiting you in the courtyard. Read your 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


273 


orders as you go, but let no man see them, not even 
Argenton. The moment they are executed return to 
Valmy.” 

“ Go where. Sire ? ” 

“To Amboise — Amboise, and ride as if all hell 
clattered at your back. Go, man ! Go, go ! ” 

Until Beaufoy had dropped the curtain behind him 
Louis sat rigidly upright ; then, as if the very springs 
of life were sapped to their utmost limit, he sank back 
in collapse upon the pillows. From the half-opened 
shutter a shaft of light, falling athwart the table, 
flashed a spark from the rounded smooth of a silver 
Christ upon the cross, propped amongst the litter, and 
drew his eyes. 

“Twelve hours,” he whispered, staring at it, fasci- 
nated. “ Thy power. Thy power and infinite love, O 
Lord ! God have mercy upon us I God have mercy 
upon me ! My son ! My son ! ” 

And riding down the slope to the river Beaufoy read; 
“ Go to Amboise. Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe 
and bring him to Valmy without delay. Tell him his 
orders are cancelled, and on your life let him hold no 
communication with the Dauphin. — Louis.” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


THE PRICE OF A LATE BREAKFAST 

For men there is no such ladder to place and fame 
as their fellow-men. Over their crushed and trampled 
backs, or with a hand in their pocket, ambition or 
greed can climb to heights which would be hopelessly 
unattainable but for the unwilling foothold of an- 
other’s disadvantage. La Mothe? Who the deuce was 
La Mothe ? Beaufoy neither knew nor cared. He had 
his first commission in his pocket, a good horse between 
his knees, the warm sunshine of the May morning lap- 
ping him round with all the subtle sweetness of the 
sweetest season of the year, and Valmy, which hipped 
him horribly with its gloom, was behind his back. He 
was almost as fully in fortune’s pocket as Monsieur 
d’Argenton ! 

Nor was that all. There was even the hope that this 
poor devil of a La Mothe might say, “No, thank you!” 
to the order for arrest, and so give Paul Beaufoy oppor- 
tunity to prove to the world at large, and the King in 
particular, that Paul Beaufoy was not to be trifled with, 
that Paul Beaufoy was as ready with his sword as clever 
with his head, and fit for something much better than 
arresting poor devils accused of God knows what. But 
274 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


275 


that would be too great good fortune, and meanwhile 
the world was all one warm, sensuous, golden, best of 
worlds, with just one small fret to mar its perfection — 
he had had no breakfast! That must be remedied, 
and the half hour’s delay could be made good by harder 
riding afterwards. 

So, midway to Chateau-Renaud, at the junction of 
the St. Amand road, he gave a little auberge his cus- 
tom, comforting nature with an omelet while a fowl 
was being put on the spit. But because custom such 
as Paul Beaufoy’s came that way but seldom the fowl 
was slow to come by, yet slower to cook, and more 
time went to its eating than would have been to Paul 
Beaufoy’s advantage had the King known the excel- 
lence of his appetite. But the King knew nothing and 
would know nothing, so no one was hurt by the picking 
of the bones. The poor devil of a La Mothe would 
naturally not object to the delay, and in any case a prick 
of the spur would drag back some of the lost minutes. 

Gaily he put his theory into practice, his heart as 
light as a bird on the wing or the paper which was to 
consign this unknown poor devil of a La Mothe to he 
neither knew nor cared what misfortune, and gallantly 
the generous beast between his knees answered the 
call. But — surely disjunctive conjunctions are the 
tragedies of the language I They tumble our castles 
in Spain about our ears with neither ruth nor warning. 
Man would be in Paradise to this day — but Eve ate 
the apple; Napoleon would have conquered Europe — 
but England stood in the way. So was it with Paul 
Beaufoy. His lost hour would have been regained — 


276 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


but the pace killed, and with Amboise a weary dis- 
tance away he found himself stranded and disconsolate 
beside a foundered horse. And linked to the tragedy 
of the disjunctive was this other tragedy. It is the 
generous-hearted who pay for the follies of others. 
Had the broken-down beast been a cowardly scum it 
would never have lain a castaway by the roadside. 

And now, indeed, in the King’s vigorous phrase, hell 
was at his back; only, as is so often the way with 
blinded humanity, he never guessed the truth, but 
thought it salvation. From behind, down a side-road, 
clattered a small troop at a quick trot, and taking the 
middle of the highway Beaufoy called a halt. 

“ In the King’s name ! ” he cried, holding up the 
hand of authority. The intoxication of a first com- 
mission is almost as self-deceiving as that of a first 
love. In his place Philip de Commines, recognizing 
that he was outnumbered ten to one, would have been 
diplomatic. When there is no power to strike, it is 
always unwise to clench the fist, especially when a hat 
in the hand may gain the point. But the authority 
sufficed, and at a motion from their leader the troop 
halted. 

“More energy than discretion,” said he, with a 
glance at the disabled horse. “ What can I do for you, 
and why in the King’s name ? ” 

“My energy and discretion are my affair,” answered 
Beaufoy, more nettled by his inability to dispute the 
truth than by the truth itself. “I am from Valmy 
upon the King’s business, and must have a horse with- 
out delay.” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


277 


*‘Let Valmy buy its own horses, I am no dealer,” 
was the brusque answer. But the hands which had 
caught up the loosened reins promptly tightened them 
afresh. “ How long from Valmy? ” 

“ That can matter nothing to you ; what does matter 
is that I am on the King’s business and must have a 
horse.” 

“ Having, like a fool, killed your own ! But that, 
as you say, is no affair of mine. When did you leave 
Valmy ? ” 

“ I see no reason ” began Beaufoy, but with a 

backward gesture the other silenced him. 

“ Reasons enough,” he said. “ Count them for your- 
self. For the third time, when did you leave Valmy ? ” 

“ This morning, and I warn you that the King will 
call you to account for every minute’s delay.” 

“ You, not me ; I did not founder your horse.” The 
half banter passed from his voice, and the bronzed face 
hardened. “And we have accounts enough as it is, 
the King and I.” 

“ Pray God he pays his debts and mine, and that I 
be there to see,” retorted Beaufoy, exasperated out of 
all prudence. “ Again, in the King’s name I demand 
your help. I must have a horse. Two of your men 
can ride double.” 

“ Must this ! Demand that ! Tut, tut ! you forget 
the reasons behind me.” But though he spoke with a 
return of the banter which goaded the unfortunate 
Beaufoy almost to madness, his eyes were keenly alert 
and there was no smile in the mockery. Had Beaufoy 
been a Philip de Commines he would have known that 


278 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


jest with no laughter at its back is more dangerous 
than a threat. “ Where are you going ? ” 

“That is my affair and the King’s.” 

Lurching forward in the saddle the elder man — he 
was eight or ten years the senior — shook his clenched 
gauntlet in Beaufoy’s face, his own crimson from the 
gust of passion which suddenly swept across it. “ The 
King ! The King ! The King ! ” he cried furiously. 
“ Curse you and your King ! What devil’s plot is that 
lying old tiger-fox scheming now that you ride to death 
an honester brute than either of you ? Whose murder 
comes next? Or are you from Valmy at all? Give 
some account of yourself.” 

“ If you are a gentleman, if you are not a coward as 
well as a bully,” answered Beaufoy, his face as white 
as the other’s was flushed, “ come down from your horse 
and meet me man to man. You’ll not ask me to give 
an account of myself a second time.” 

“That is Valmy all over! Give up my advantage 
that you may gain ! And who are you with your musts 
and demands ? ” 

“ My name is Beaufoy ” 

“Then you are not from Valmy,” broke in the other, 
punning on Beaufoy’s name, “ for no faith, beau, bonne, 
or belle, ever came out of Valmy.” 

With a shrug of his shoulders Beaufoy turned on his 
heel. “ Coward as well as bully,” he began, but at a 
sign from their leader the troop gathered round, hem- 
ming him in in a circle. 

“ Now that my reasons are plainer to you, will you 
answer my question — where are you going? No 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


279 


reply ? And yet no one understands the logic of num- 
bers better than your coward of a master. But I’ll 
have my answer. Are you going to Blois ? No ! 
To Tours? No I Amboise? Ah! your eyes have a 
tongue of their own. You cannot have lived very 
long in Valmy, my ingenuous friend. Why to Am- 
boise? You won’t tell? But, by God, you shall! 
Do you think I’ll be baulked for a scruple ? ” His 
hand crept to his hilt as he spoke ; now, with a swift 
wrench the blade was out and its point at Beaufoy’s 
throat. “ Come, your message ? ” 

But Beaufoy only shook his head. The age had the 
quality of its defects. The law that might was right 
had bred a contempt for life, one’s own or another’s, it 
mattered little which. In the great game of national 
aggression the single life is a very small thing, and the 
man who slew without pity could die without fear. If 
any second incentive were needed, Beaufoy found it in 
the gibe at his name. Beaufoy would hold good faith 
let it cost Beaufoy what it might. Stiffening himself 
rigidly he answered nothing. 

“ Come, the message ! I’ll have it, though I rip it out 
of you. You won’t answer? Then there is no help 
for it. Once!” — and the point touched — “twice!” 
— and the point pricked — “three times! Monsieur, you 
are a brave fool, but on your life do not stir. Grip him 
by the elbows, Jan. Now you, Michault, go through 
his pockets. What first ? An empty purse ! And yet 
you must have a horse, must you ? Was I to collect its 
price at Valmy, my good sir? When I go to Valmy it 
will be for more than the life of a horse. Next, a 


280 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


'woman’s ribbon ! No wonder the purse was empty. 
A paper ! Give it me — a love-letter ! I congratulate 
you, Monsieur Beaufoy, and return it without reading 
the signature. No doubt the empty purse is justified. 
May she show as firm a faith as you have done ; her 
cause is the better of the two. Now that. This time 
we have it. Monsieur Beaufoy, you have done every- 
thing a brave and honourable gentleman could do. 
Give me your parole to hurt neither yourself nor us and 
Jan will release your arms.” 

Panting, every nerve tense with impotent resent- 
ment, Paul Beaufoy looked up into the not unkindly 
eyes turned down to his. A physiognomist would have 
said it was a reckless face rather than an evil one. The 
blade had been lowered, but Jan’s muscular hands still 
held his elbows behind his back in an iron grip; beyond 
him was Michault. No prisoner in shackles was more 
helpless. 

“For this time,” he said between his teeth; “but God 
granting me life ” 

“ Let go your hold, Jan. Monsieur Beaufoy, I 
trust you as I would never trust that brute without a 
soul you call King. Trust the King ? God help the 
man who trusts King Louis! One very dear to me 
trusted him, trusted his pledged word with his life, and 
I humbly pray God’s mercy has him in its keeping, for 
he found none in Valmy.” Sheathing his sword he sat 
back in the saddle and smoothed the looted paper care- 
fully. “ Go to Amboise. Arrest Monsieur Stephen 
La Mothe and bring him to Valmy without delay. 
Tell him his orders are cancelled, and on your life 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


281 


let him hold no communication with the Dauphin. 
— Louis.” 

Having read the order through from beginning to 
end, he read it over a second time, sentence by sentence, 
pausing to consider each separately. 

“‘Go to Amboise.’ Monsieur Beaufoy, I do not wish 
to ask you anything a man of honour such as you are 
cannot answer. Do they know you in Amboise ? ” 

“ No,” answered Beaufoy, after a moment’s considera- 
tion; “and if I thought it mattered one way or the 
other, you would get no answer from me. I am from 
the north, and a stranger both in Valmy and Amboise.” 

“‘Arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe and bring 
him to Valmy without delay.’ It follows that you do 
not know this Stephen La Mothe nor he you? ” 

“No,” repeated Beaufoy. 

“ Nor his offence ? ” 

“Not even that.” 

“ God knows there need be no offence at all. ‘ Tell 
him his orders are cancelled.’ Monsieur Beaufoy, I 
do not ask you what these orders are.” 

“ And if I knew, I would not tell you.” 

“ Then you do not know ? ” 

“No.” 

“ ‘ On your life let him hold no communication with 
the Dauphin.’ Is it fair to ask why? ” 

“ Again, if I knew, I would not tell you, but I do 
not.” 

“ Then it comes to this : you, a stranger in Amboise, 
are to arrest a stranger to yourself for an offence of 
which you are ignorant ? ” 


282 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“ With my orders clear and explicit I have no need 
of knowledge.” 

“ Is this order public property at Valmy ? ” 

“No one knows of it except myself and the King,” 
replied Beaufoy, clinging desperately to the remnants 
of his authority. 

The other nodded abstractedly, his thoughts busy 
elsewhere. He quite recognized the type of man with 
whom he had to do — light-hearted, careless, frivolous 
even up to a certain point, but beyond that immovable. 
To question further would be useless, and almost in 
violation of the strange code of honour which per- 
mitted unscrupulous violence but respected the right 
of reticence in an equal — in an equal, be it observed ; 
an inferior had no rights, none whatever. 

“‘Bring him to Valmy.’” Turning in his saddle 
he beckoned to one of his followers, a man older than 
the rest, shrewd-faced and grizzled. “What do you 
think, Perrault; can we do it ? ” 

“ Enter Amboise ? ” 

“ Enter Valmy.” 

But Beaufoy could control himself no longer. 
“Monsieur, whoever you are, I demand back the 
King’s order. These instructions are for me alone, 
and I must ” 

“What? More musts? No, no, you have done all 
a man of honour can do — except hold your tongue and 
acknowledge the inevitable. Jan and Michault, take 
Monsieur Beaufoy into the field yonder, but quietly, 
courteously.” 

“ Courteously ! ” foamed Beaufoy, struggling vainly 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


283 


as he was hustled across the road out of earshot. 
“ Curse your courtesy, footpad ! Some day you shall 
answer me for this.” 

“If the King permits,” was the ironic reply. “Be 
a little more gentle, Jan. Now, Perrault ? ” 

“Monsieur Marc, they will never let us into Valmy.” 

“Not all of us, not you — I alone.” 

“ Alone ? Monsieur Marc, you would never ven- 
ture ” 

“Never venture? As God lives, Perrault, I would 
venture to the gates of hell for just five minutes with 
Louis of France, and you know it.” 

“ But it is impossible.” 

“Desperate, not impossible. This,” and he shook 
the paper in his closed hand, “gives me Stephen La 
Mothe ; La Mothe has the King’s signet, he told Villon 
and Villon told Saxe ; the signet gives me Valmy if I 
have any luck. La Mothe and the King at one cast — 
La Mothe, through whom I have twice missed the 
Dauphin ! Perrault, I’ll do it ; by all the saints. I’ll 
do it.” 

“ Yes,” said Perrault, and there was a wistful tender- 
ness in his rough voice, “you may get into Valmy, but. 
Master Marc, you’ll never win out again.” 

“ Old friend, would you have me turn coward with 
such a chance flung in my way ? And would Guy have 
done less for me ? ” 

But Perrault returned no answer. 


CHAPTER XXX 


“ LOVE IS MY LIFE ” 

‘‘ Blessed be the man who first invented sleep,'’ 
said the wise Spaniard. And yet there are times 
when even a sleepless night can leave a light heart 
behind it. For the first time since coming to Amboise 
Stephen La Mothe felt at peace with himself and with 
all the world, though the latter is a secondary consider- 
ation. As between the two disturbers of his comfort a 
man’s most triumphant foe is his conscience. And he 
had good cause for comfort. When at their very worst, 
things had gone well with him, and as he reckoned up 
his mercies the morning Paul Beaufoy rode post from 
Valmy, he found his pouch of life full to the rim with 
white stones. 

First : Ursula ! There was a little tremulous con- 
traction of the heart, a little sudden sense of warm 
sunlight as he said the name over. Ursula — Ursula ! 
What a kindly cunning mother is Fate : she always 
gives the one sweet woman in the world the sweetest 
of names. For where was there a sweeter name than 
Ursula ? So soft, so — so — well, just Ursula. Ursula 
was safe and had forgiven him. Which of these two 
mercies was the greater he hardly knew ; the second, 
perhaps, since it was undeserved. He was a very humble 
284 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


285 


lover, as all true lovers should be who realize, with a 
wondering incomprehension, that in creating woman 
last of all the Lord God had concentrated all the 
wisdom of His six days’ experience, and even then 
only consummated the perfection after a seventh day 
of thoughtful rest. He did not know that the miracle 
of a loving woman’s forgiveness is as common and 
natural as the sunshine, and, let it be said sorrowfully, 
as necessary to life. 

And Ursula was safe. For that they had to thank 
Villon. It was he who had grasped the flaw of Saxe’s 
over-proof, and so tumbled the whole fabric of lies into 
a ruin never to be built up again. For both these 
mercies he humbly thanked God. It is to be noted by 
the student of the ways of men that he never gave the 
Dauphin’s safety a thought. He had risked his life for 
the boy, and would risk it again if necessary, risk it 
cheerfully, but as an abstract proposition he cared little 
whether the Dauphin lived or died. Next after Ursula 
came Commines. There had been a bitter moment 
when Commines had tottered on his pedestal, but Ur- 
sula’s hand had steadied him just when the touch was 
needed. Ursula again I It was marvellous how the 
whole of Amboise had its orbit round Ursula. In the 
end Commines had justified himself, and in that belief 
the loyal heart of Stephen La Mothe found the early 
May sunshine yet more pleasant and the air sweeter. 

Nor was there now any fear but that he would leave 
Amboise with clean hands. The white horse and the 
piebald were ambling side by side under his feet, and 
all danger of a sprawling tumble between them in the 


286 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


mud was at an end. And because he would leave 
Amboise with clean hands he could without shame say 
to Ursula de Vesc such things as are the sacred treas- 
ures of the heart’s Holy of Holies. At least it would 
not be an unworthy love he had to offer, unworthy of 
her acceptance, since no man’s love could be fully 
worthy of Ursula de Vesc, but not unworthy in itself. 
But first he had the King’s commission to fulfil, and if 
Louis really lay dead at Valmy surely he might violate 
the letter of his orders and say, “ These are the message 
of a father’s love.” Or, rather, Ursula came first, al- 
ways first, even before the King’s commission, and with 
the thought came Ursula de Vesc herself. 

“Good morning. Monsieur La Mothe.” 

“ Mademoiselle ! you so early ? ” 

“I do not think many slept in Amboise last night. 
Did you hear that Tristan’s letter was one of your 
King’s merry jests ? ” 

“ But are you certain ? ” 

“ Absolutely. He was seen on the walls just before 
the closing of the gates last night. You know at Valmy 
they do not wait for the sun to set. Shall I let you into 
a secret I would not have told you a fortnight ago ? ” 
The white night, its long hours haunted by anxious 
thoughts, had left a wan reflection on her face, but now 
the pallor warmed ; into the tired eyes a little light of 
laughter flickered, part humorous, part tender, and 
the Cupid’s bow trembled on its string. “ In Amboise 
we are not so forlorn as you think. The innkeeper at 
Chateau-Renaud is our very good friend, or how could 
we have known that a certain Monsieur Stephen La 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 287 

Mothe, a wandering minstrel with lute and knapsack 
on his back, was coming our way ? ” 

“ You knew that ? ” 

“From the first,” she answered, still smiling, but 
with so kindly a raillery that not even a lover could 
take offence. “ Did you think you played the part so 
well that you deceived us ? Or that the Dauphin had 
sunk so low as to make a friend of the first hedge-singer 
who came his way? We were warned from Chateau- 
Renaud that you who arrived with Monsieur d’Argen- 
ton on horseback departed alone on foot.” 

“That raw-boned roan which passed me on the 
road?” 

“ Yes. And can you wonder if we were suspicious 
and just a little frightened? You were from Valmy 
and Valmy is our Galilee : nothing good comes out of it.” 

“ I wonder at nothing but your goodness in bearing 
with me.” 

“You owe us nothing for that. That,” the colour 
mounted to her forehead ; she, too, had grown ashamed 
of the first night, ashamed and astonished that she had 
not understood Stephen La Mothe’s transparent good 
faith from the very first, “that was precaution. In 
the Chateau we could watch the watcher. Then you 
began that fairy tale and your face told me you be- 
lieved it every word. That puzzled me. How could 
anything good come out of Valmy? Yet next day you 
saved the Dauphin’s life and again yesterday. But I 
am forgetting the King and how we know the letter 
was a lie. Cartier, the innkeeper at Chateau-Renaud, 
has a son in Valmy and had been to visit him: the 


288 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


King was on the walls when he left before sunset last 
night. The hangman’s letter was a trap to catch us 
all, and the Great King consented to it. What a 
worthy King ! Oh ! I am very human and my bitter- 
ness must speak out when I remember last night. 
Saxe, Tristan, the King, Monsieur d’Argenton, and 
against them one weak coward of a girl. They would 
have lied my life away last night ; and not mine only, 
the Dauphin’s.” 

“ Mademoiselle, am I forgiven for my folly of yester- 
day?” He knew he was, but for a cunning reason of 
his own he wished to her hear say so. 

“Can I blame you?” she answered, making no pre- 
tence at misunderstanding him. “ You, too, are from 
Valmy. No, no. I do not mean that. That was a 
cruel thing to say ; it is you who must forgive me, for 
you are not of Valmy, you who stood by me and be- 
lieved in me even when I seemed the vile thing they 
called me.” 

“ The sweetest and truest woman on God’s earth,” 
he said. “ I believed in you even before I loved you — 
no, that is not true, for I think now I loved you that 
very first night when you had nothing for me but the 
contempt I deserved. Every day since then you have 
grown sweeter, dearer, more reverenced : so strong for 
others, so full of courage for others, so full of thought 
for others and without a thought for yourself : never 
one thought for yourself, never one and never a fear. 
And every day I have hungered for you ; I don’t know 
any other word for it but just hungered, hungered, 
hungered that a little of the dear womanly graciousness 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


289 


might be mine. Though that would not be enough, not 
that only : love must have love or go starved.” 

Except for a shake of the head in depreciation or 
denial she had heard him without interruption. Why 
should she interrupt what was so sweet to hear? But 
though it was the very comfort her heart longed for, 
there was no smile on her face, a fresher glow on the 
cheeks, perhaps, a fuller light in the eyes, but beyond 
these a pathetic wistful gravity rather, as if in the pres- 
ence of a solemn sacrament. And surely the revelation 
of that which is nearest in us to the divine is a true 
sacrament of the spirit. But when he ended she put 
out a hand and touched him gently, her fingers linger- 
ing on his arm in a caress. 

“ And I ? Oh, my dear, my more than dear, have I 
not hungered? I think a woman starves for love as a 
man never can.” From his arm the hand stole up and 
caught him round the neck, the other joining it, and 
his face was drawn down to her own. “ Am I shame- 
less, beloved? No! for there is no shame in love, and 
Stephen, my heart, my hero, my man of men, I love 
you, I love you, I love you.” 

But presently, as she lay in his arms, her head drawn 
into the hollow of that which held her near, the grey 
eyes smiled up at him in a return to the tender mockery 
he knew and loved so well, nor was it less sweet for the 
moisture behind the lashes. 

“ Yesterday ” 

“ Hush, beloved, do not talk of yesterday,” nor, for 
the moment, could she. But she was wilful, and being 
a woman, had her way. 


290 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“Yesterday you sang ; will you ever sing again?” 

“Yes, listen ! 

‘ Heigh-ho, love is my life, 

Live I in loving, and love I to live. * 

Until to-day I never knew how true that is. Ursula, 
my sweet, you must teach me the ending, for I have 
never yet found one to please me.” 

“ You talk of endings when life has just begun. 
Tell me, was Homer blind?” 

“ So they say,” he answered, marvelling much what 
new shift of thought was coming next. 

“I thought so,” and the smile deepened until the 
grey eyes shone through their thin veil of unshed tears. 
“ And Homer was blind yesterday or he would have 
seen I expected a very different question.” 

“ Yes, laugh at my foolishness ; I love to see you 
laugh, you who have laughed so little all these days. 
But I think the time of laughter has come for us both.” 

“ Until you go back to Valmy.” 

“And that must be soon.” 

On the instant she belied his optimism, for the 
laughter faded from her eyes leaving her once more the 
woman of many sorrows, and with a sigh she released 
herself from his clasp. 

“ I hate Valmy ; I have a horror of it and of your 
terrible King. He always seems to me like some dry- 
hearted, cold-hearted beast rather than a man. Is there 
nothing human in him ? ” 

“He is more human than you think. Ursula, I 
know it, so you need not shake that dear, wise head of 
yours.” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 291 

“You say so because you are so human yourself. 
Dear, I love you for your charity.” 

“ Love me for what you will so long as you do love 
me,” answered he. “ And do not be afraid. I am 
quite sure I am not making any mistake. The King 
trusts me as he never trusted Monsieur de Commines.” 

“ And how well he trusts him we saw last night,” 
she said, with a little bitter irony which surely might 
be pardoned. “ But how can I help being afraid ? 
Are you not all I have in the world ? ” 

“ Charles?” 

“ Do you think Charles counts for anything now ? 
And yet he is a dear boy who has the good taste to ap- 
prove warmly of Monsieur Stephen La Mothe. Did I 
not tell you, that day you were playing with the dogs, 
that you would win all our hearts ? ” 

“ And Monsieur Stephen La Mothe,” said Stephen 
jestingly, “ approves so warmly of the dear boy’s ap- 
proval, that if it would not be presumptuous he would 
ask his leave to beg his acceptance of a little remem- 
brance of these last days.” 

“Ask his leave I Poor boy, he would be delighted. 
Dauphin of France though he is, he gets so few presents. 
What is it? Let me guess. Your lute! and you would 
sing ” 

“No, not my lute, wicked that you are. And if I 
sang at all it would be Blaise’s song adapted to this 
most blessed of blessed days. 


‘ Ursula is sweet to kiss, 
Sweet to kiss, sweet to kiss.’ 


292 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


I told Monsieur de Commines that was one thing I must 
have in a wife, and praise God, I have got it !” 

“ Hush, Stephen ! Do you want all Amboise to hear 
your foolishness ? ” 

“ If that is foolishness, may I never be wise again. 
To me it is the one wisdom of the world. I think I am 
drunk this morning and it is only seven o’clock. Is 
not that scandalous ? Love-drunk at seven in the morn- 
ing and never to be sober again ! Mademoiselle de 
Vesc, do you know you are the most beautiful woman 
in all France ? ” 

“ I know I am the happiest,” she answered soberly. 
“ But, Stephen, what have you got for the boy ? I would 
not be a true woman if I was not curious.” 

“ And you are the very truest woman ” 

“ Stephen, I will not have any more foolishness. Tell 
me at once what have you got for Charles ? ” 

“ Two small gifts: a coat-of-mail so fine in the links 
that you could hold it in your two hands — no ! not in your 
two hands, they are only large enough to hold my heart. 
Then there is an embroidered mask, a tinselled toy of a 
thing but pretty enough. They will help him to dress 
his plays. Ask him, Ursula, if he will accept them 
from me even though I came by way of Valmy.” 

“ W ould you spoil his pleasure ? No, I shall say noth- 
ing at all about Valmy, just that a wandering minstrel 
is so rich that he can make presents to a Dauphin of 
France! Sing me a song. Master Homer the blind, and 
I will give you — let me see: no, not what you think 
— a silver livre ! ” But she did not wait for his music. 
Dropping him a little demure, mocking curtsy she turned 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


293 


and ran down the box-edged path, singing as she went, 
and the air she sang was Stephen La Mothe’s “Heigh-ho! 
love is my life; Live I in loving and love I to live!” 
and the lilt of the music set Master Homer’s heart throb- 
bing. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


SAXE RISES IN VILLON’S ESTIMATION 

“There was a time,” said Villon, “when I, too, 
could forget that rose arches are open at the ends. 
The world is always gaping at our elbow. If we 
taste a peach in an orchard, the wall is low; if we 
smell a rose in a garden, there are. Heaven be thanked, 
more flowers than leaves when life’s at May; and 
either way the world is with us.” 

“ And you were the gaping world ! ” answered La 
Mothe, vexed for Ursula’s sake that Villon of the 
bitter tongue should have discovered their secret. 
“Was that friendly of you?” 

“ Not gaping, no ! But is a man to close his eyes 
when heaven opens? I beg you to believe,” he went 
on with great dignity, “that just so soon as I made 
certain you had nothing to learn from me I left you 
to your rose-gathering. Observe I have not said one 
word about the thorns. That is the stale gibe of the 
cynic whose heart of youth has dried before its time. 
And what if there are thorns ? A single rose with the 
dew of love upon it is worth more than a pair of 
scratched hands. Gape? Could you believe it of 
me — of me, Francois Villon? No, son of my teaching, 
I doffed my hat and went on tiptoe to see Saxe.” 

294 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


295 


“Saxe!” cried La Mothe. “Never once have I 
thought of Saxe, never once all day, and now it is 
almost night.” 

“ Don’t distress yourself on that account. Saxe has 
wanted for nothing, thanks to his two best friends. 
That reminds me.” Pausing, Villon rapped loudly on 
the table with his clenched knuckles, rapped until a 
servant familiar with his ways answered the summons. 
“ My friend, fetch me a bottle of wine, one single 
bottle from the furthest-in bin on the right-hand side 
of the cellar. It is the ’63 vintage,” he explained to 
La Mothe, “ and I have the best of reasons for knowing 
Saxe will not object.” 

“ But why one bottle only ? ” 

“ I have been invited to a certain presentation,” he 
answered, the crow’s feet round his twinkling eyes 
deepening as he laughed. “ Thanks, my friend,” he 
went on as the drawer returned with the wine ; “ place 
it on the table and retire to your kitchen to meditate 
on the mutability of human fortune in the person of 
the greatest poet of his age, from the Guest of the 
Three-legged Maid of Montfaucon to ‘ Francois Villon, 
my friend’ of the Dauphin of France I At last they 
are beginning to appreciate me at the Chateau.” 

“ But what of Saxe ? ” 

“Ah, Saxe?” Filling his horn mug he emptied it 
with such slow satisfaction that the flavour of no single 
drop of the wine missed his palate. “ Saxe’s best 
friend had been before me this morning.” 

“But Monsieur de Commines’ orders were strict, 
only you and I were to see him.” 


296 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“Not even your Monsieur de Commines can shut 
out a man from himself, and who is a better friend or 
a worse enemy? Saxe, the wise man, has hanged 
himself.” 

“ Hanged himself ? Saxe ? ” 

“An intelligent anticipation,” said Villon, nodding 
thoughtfully. “ I did not think he had so much good 
sense or good feeling. He always struck me as a man 
of a coarse, material mind ; but one can never tell.” 

“ Villon, it is horrible ! How can you talk so cal- 
lously ? But you know you do not mean what you say.” 

“Every word of it. Hanged he would have been 
in any case, that was inevitable. I warned him last 
night that he knew too much, and that more went into 
Amboise than came out again. And was it not better 
he should go to his end quietly, decently, just God and 
himself alone together — the Good God who under- 
stands us so much better than we do ourselves and so 
makes allowances ? You don’t agree with me ? ” 

“I can only say again, it is horrible.” 

“ Then what of the justice of the King which makes 
a man a spectacle in the market-place, with all the 
world agape at the terror of it, the world that licks 
its lips over lovers in rose arches or the gibbeting of 
wretches no worse than itself ? Think of the terror of 
it ! Think of the shame of it ! The men he had 
drunk with, the women he had laughed with, the 
children he had played with, all ringed round him to 
see him die. And there he would hang till his bones 
dropped, a shame and a blot on the clean face of the 
earth, blackened by the heat, drenched white by the 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


297 


rain, twirled and swung by every breath of wind, while 
the pies and the crows made thimble-pits of his face, 
a waste rag of humanity. Come now, which is the 
decenter ? ” 

“ Poor Saxe ! ” 

“ If Saxe had had his way, there would have been no 
dew on the roses this morning. He would have lied 
Mademoiselle de Vesc to death without a scruple.” 

“She wished him no harm, of that I am certain.” 

“It is of the quality of roses to be sweet. But, La 
Mothe, say nothing to her; it would spoil her happi- 
ness, and we seldom get pure gold to spend through 
a whole day of life,” a cynical truth La Mothe was to 
remember before a new morning dawned. 

“ Villon, how can you sit there drinking his wine ? ” 

“ My friend, would Saxe be the less hanged if I went 
thirsty? And, to be serious, if to go thirsty would 
unhang him, I would drink a second bottle of wine to 
make certain. If he had lived to fight for his life like 
a mad dog, as he would have done. Heaven knows how 
many he would have bitten. As it is, peace to him, 
and God be thanked there is no infection in a ten-foot 
rope. And yet I don’t know! When I think of it. 
La Mothe, there is such an uncomforting resemblance 
between us three that I wonder which will go next.” 

“I admit no resemblance, at least to Saxe.” 

“Do you not? A fortnight ago he palmed off his 
bad wine upon me, I palmed you upon the Dauphin, 
and you palmed your bad verses off upon mademoiselle. 
Now Saxe is hung, and — bah ! your presentation will 
save us two.” 


298 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“You use too big a word, it is nothing but a trifling 
remembrance.” 

“ It is a poet’s privilege to use what words he 
chooses, and I choose presentation. Or,” he pushed 
out his loose lips as he leered up at La Mothe with 
a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, “shall I call it another 
intelligent anticipation? No, your own word will do 
better — a remembrance. The King — God bless him I 
— will presently die in earnest; the Dauphin, being 
King, will presently forget Monsieur Stephen La Mothe, 
forget the race for life on Grey Roland’s back, forget 
the stairs of the Burnt Mill. Short memories are com- 
mon diseases in princes. When, lo ! — a wise youth you 
are. La Mothe — a remembrance jogs his recollection, 
and the King who had forgotten rewards Monsieur 
Stephen La Mothe for having saved the Dauphin’s 
life twice over. Monsieur La Mothe’s fortune is 
made all through his intelligent anticipation in bring- 
ing a presentation to Amboise by way of remembrance. 
Faith! La Mothe, it was almost prophetic, and 
prophets fare badly in Amboise. Look at Hugues I 
Look at Saxe I That ten-foot rope may be infectious 
after all.” 

“Villon, you are quite wrong.” 

“ Pray God I ” answered Villon soberly. “ It’s an 
ill of the flesh few recover from. But let us go to the 
Chateau.” Pushing the unemptied bottle from him he 
rose with a sigh. His puckish, ironic humour had 
changed ; gaiety was utterly gone, and the wrinkles 
upon his face were those of age, not laughter. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


LA MOTHE FULFILS HIS COMMISSION 

Partly to divert the boy from his grief at H agues’ 
death, but partly also as an outlet for her new-found 
lightness of heart, Ursula de Vesc would have turned 
what Villon insisted on calling a presentation into a 
playful ceremonial. Gorgeously attired, the Grand 
Turk, seated on a divan of shawls and cushions, would 
receive the envoy of the Sultan of Africa bringing 
presents from his master. It would be just such a play 
of make-believe as the boy loved. But when La Mothe 
proposed to present the offering in the name of the 
King of the Genie her zest waned, and a little alloy 
seemed mixed with the pure gold of the day. That 
would remind him of Valmy and spoil all his pleasure, 
she declared. There must be nothing of Valmy in the 
night’s amusement. 

So only she. Father John, and the dogs were present 
in the Dauphin’s private apartment, study and play- 
room in one, when La Mothe and Villon entered. As 
is almost always the case, the room reflected many of 
the characteristics of its owner, and in its ordered dis- 
order, its hints of studies, its litter of wooden swords 
and broken dog- whips, might be seen the boy who was 
almost man in gravity and yet still a child in a child’s 
299 


300 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


love of toys. Rising as the two were announced, his 
effort at dignity was sorely marred by the eager curios- 
ity with which he eyed the linen bundle carried by La 
Mothe. 

“So you are leaving Amboise, Monsieur La Mothe, 
and we will have no more games together.” 

“ When I return. Monseigneur.” 

“ And I hope that will be soon, though I don’t know 
why you are going. But, then, I never quite knew 
why you came at all.” 

“Nor I until to-day, but the reason is the very best 
in the world,” answered La Mothe, and the boy, follow- 
ing his glance, caught the significance of the colour 
warming Ursula de Vesc’s cheeks. 

“ So you have made up your quarrel, you two ? ” 

“Never to quarrel again. Monseigneur.” 

“ I hope so, but I don’t believe it. Two people can’t 
live together without quarrelling. Even I quarrel with 
Ursula at times. Monsieur La Mothe, will you please 
call me Charles, as she does? it is my wish.” 

“ Monseigneur, you are very good.” 

“Not Monseigneur any more, then, and don’t forget. 
It’s all I have to give. Father John, who never saved 
my life or did anything for me, calls me Charles, so 
why not you who saved my life twice ? Down, Chariot, 
down ! leave Monsieur La Mothe’s parcel alone. You 
are always pushing your nose where it is not wanted. 
What have you in that napkin. Monsieur La Mothe ? ” 

“For your acceptance. Monseigneur ” 

“ Charles, not Monseigneur,” said Ursula softly. 
“ You will be calling me mademoiselle next ! ” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


301 


“ Hush, Ursula ! I cannot hear what Monsieur La 
Mothe says if you keep chattering. For my accept- 
ance, Monsieur La Mothe? Not many give me pres- 
ents ; but then, I don’t think there is much love in the 
world.” 

“ There is more love in the world than you think,” 
said La Mothe, ‘‘ and some day you will very reverently 
thank God for it, as I do. Some day, too, you will 
know that these are from the very heart of love itself.” 

“Yes, yes,” said the boy, shifting impatiently in his 
chair as La Mothe, laying the package on the table, 
busied himself untying the knotted corners, “I know 
very well all you have done for me ; but what have you 
there ? ” 

“Wait, my son, wait; you will know all in good 
time.” But when the Franciscan would have laid a 
restraining hand on the Dauphin’s shoulder, Villon 
twitched him by the sleeve of his robe. 

“ Hush, man, hush I Had you never young blood in 
you? Why, I am like Chariot the puppy, just itching 
to know what is inside.” 

“ But it is not good for youth ” 

“ It is good for youth to be young,” said Villon tes- 
tily. “ Ah, Monseigneur, I like that better than a frock 
with a cord that goes all round, and no offence to you. 
Father John.” 

Catching the coat-of-mail by the shoulder points. 
La Mothe shook it out and held it hanging with such a 
careful carelessness that the lamplight, picking out 
each separate link, fired its length and breadth into a 
dazzling glimmer of living silver flame shot through 


302 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


by the colder blue of hammered steel. With every 
cunning, unseen movement of the fingers a ripple from 
the throat rolled downward and out at the edges in a 
white fire of fairy jewel-work. Then with a jerk he 
caught it in his open hands, shaking them till it set- 
tled so compactly down that it lay entirely hidden in 
their cup. 

“ Monsieur La Mothe ! Oh, Monsieur La Mothe ! ” 

To La Mothe the flushed face, the sparkling eyes, 
and, above all, the exclamation, were so pathetically 
eloquent of a stinted, starved, neglected childhood that 
a rush of passionate resentment swept across him in 
arraignment of the father who robbed his son of those 
common joys which are childhood’s natural food and 
rightful heritage. To be a man in responsibilities, a 
man bearing the burden and sorrows of his years, with- 
out having first been a boy at heart is more than an 
irreparable loss, it is an irreparable wrong, a tragedy 
which has killed the purest sweetener of the sours of 
life. Rob the twig of its sunshine and you rob the tree 
of its strength. But even while the flame of his anger 
scorched him, he remembered from whose hand had 
come the gifts which brightened the boy’s eyes, and 
was ashamed. Had he not said there was a wealth of 
unimagined love in the world ? 

“For me. Monsieur La Mothe?” 

“If you will accept them.” 

“See, Ursula ! See, Father John ! Now I can really 
be a knight like Roland, or fight as Joan of Arc fought. 
Oh, thank yon, Monsieur La Mothe, thank you. And 
what is this ? ” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


303 


“An embroidered mask for your plays, only none 
but you must wear it. See, this is the way it fastens 
behind, and this fringe hides the mouth.” 

“I don’t think I like that so well. Yes, I do ! For 
now I can be the man who attacked the Burnt Mill 
yesterday — he wore a mask, you remember. Poor 
Hugues ! Oh, Ursula, I wish Hugues was here that I 
might show him my armour. But I will show it to 
Blaise instead. You know Blaise is to sleep at my door 
now? Come, Father John, while I show it to Blaise. 
I will put on the mask afterwards.” 

“And meanwhile. Monseigneur,” said Villon, “I will 
try how it fits.” 

But La Mothe, remembering the King’s instructions, 
intervened. “No, no, Villon, that is for the Dauphin 
alone — that and the coat-of-mail — no one else must 
use them.” 

For a moment it seemed as if Villon, vexed at what 
he took to be a rebuke for presumption, would have 
pushed aside La Mothe’s protesting hand, but with a 
shrug of his shoulders he gave way. 

“Perhaps you are right,” he said, turning the edge of 
the awkwardness with a gibe. “ Princes have need of 
masks lest the world should see they are nothing but 
common flesh and blood like the rest of us.” 

Slipping her hand into La Mothe’s arm Ursula de 
Vesc drew him to the door, followed by Villon, and the 
three stood watching the Dauphin half dragging Father 
John down the passage in his eagerness to show Blaise 
his treasure. He had caught the Franciscan familiarly 
by the sleeve, his cold suspicion of all that came from 


304 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


Valmy banished for once, and was hugging the mail to 
his breast with the other arm. 

“ More and more you are my dear,” she whispered, 
her lips so near his ear that his blood tingled at the 
stirring of the warm breath. “It was a beautiful 
thought and I love you for it, but it was just like you. 
Oh, Stephen, how I wish Villon was not here ! ” 

Now why did she wish that? And why did the 
white rose flame suddenly red ? 

Left to promptings of his own desires. Chariot the 
inquisitive debated whether the door or the table 
offered the better field for amusement and improving 
observation. The door, with its group of three crowded 
into the narrow space, and all intent upon the passage- 
way, promised well, but the table was nearer and 
forbidden, which promised better. Besides, some play 
he did not share was in progress, and he owed it to the 
dignity of his puppydom to know what it was. Once 
already, when he tried to push his nose into that linen 
package, he had been baulked. Rearing himself on his 
hind legs, his forepaws on the edge of the Dauphin’s 
chair, he stretched his neck inquisitively. But the 
chair was blank, and with an effort he scrambled upon 
the seat, his ears cocked, his head aslant. 

So far all was well, and from his vantage he looked 
about him with an enquiring mind. There was some- 
thing new on the table, something strange, part of the 
play he had been shut out from, and his curiosity was 
piqued. Very cautiously he stretched out his sensitive, 
twitching nose and sniffed. Yes, it certainly was new, 
certainly was strange, so new and strange that he must 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


305 


enquire further. Again, very cautiously, for he knew 
he had no business there at all, he caught the mask in 
his teeth and dropped with it softly on the floor. A little 
dazed by his success he looked about him. The humans 
were at the door talking quietly, Charlemagne beside 
them ; Diane and Lui-meme were biting one another’s 
ears in a corner ; he had the floor to himself, and could 
investigate quietly. The fringe caught his attention. 
Nosing the mask face downward he sniffed again, draw- 
ing a long breath, and as he sniffed a thrill shivered 
through him, his legs braced under him rigidly as if 
they were not his legs at all, then he gave a little soft, 
growling yelp, sighed, and grew suddenly tired. His 
legs relaxed, doubling under his body, and he lay quiet, 
his muzzle buried in the hollow of the mask. 

“ In the steel coat he will look like the Maid of 
France herself ! ” said Villon as they turned back from 
the doorway. 

‘‘ And perhaps his plays may waken something of the 
Maid’s great soul in him.” Then, before La Mothe 
could tell her that she herself had shown much of Joan’s 
strong courage, singleness of heart, and unselfish spirit, 
she added, “ It was a sorrowful year when France lost 
so great a soul.” 

“ But France is never long bereaved,” replied Villon, 
and from his tone they could net say if he spoke in jest 
or earnest. “ If a great soul went, a great soul came — 
I was born that year I La Mothe, Chariot is no re- 
specter of the rights of princes.” 

“Chariot! You mischievous dog!” Stooping to 
rescue the mask, Ursula de Vesc caught the puppy with 


306 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


both hands to drag him towards her ; but at the first 
touch she let him slip from her hold and drew back, 
startled, looking up into La Mothe’s face as he bent over 
her. The plump little body relaxed heavily, sluggishly 
on its side. “ Stephen, Chariot is dead ! ” 

“Dead? Not possible, Ursula!” Stooping in turn 
he lifted the dog ; but the limbs sagged loosely down- 
ward and the head rolled over on the shoulders. The 
eyes were fixed and glazed, the chaps twitched back 
from the gums, leaving the teeth bared. There could 
be no doubt — Chariot’s days of curiosity were ended. 

“ Stephen, what does it mean ? What can have hurt 
poor Chariot?” But when reaching downward again 
she would have picked up the mask Villon anticipated 
her, setting his foot upon it. 

“ Don’t touch it, for God’s sake, don’t touch it I ” 

“ Monsieur Villon, that is the Dauphin’s.” 

“ It killed Chariot I ” 

“ Killed Chariot ? How ? ” 

“ Ask La Mothe, he gave it to the Dauphin and 
should know.” 

Perplexed, bewildered, vexed, too, at the destruction 
of the Dauphin’s toy and the tone of Villon’s reply, she 
caught at the table-edge, pulling herself upright. 

“ Stephen, what does it all mean ?” 

But La Mothe only shook his head. Comprehension 
had been staggered but had recovered, and was grow- 
ing to conviction as small significances, luminous and 
imperative in spite of their triviality, pieced themselves 
together in his memory. But how could he answer the 
question ? How put in words the fear which was taking 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 307 

shape in his mind? It was Villon who gave her the 
key. 

“ Poison.” 

“ Poison ? ” she repeated, shrinking in a natural 
repulsion. “Poison on a mask you gave the Dau- 
phin ? Stephen, how could that be ? But you must 
answer, you must tell us,” she insisted as he shook his 
head for the second time, “ you must, you must ! ” 

“ I cannot.” He spoke curtly, harshly, but the deter- 
mination was unmistakable. Twice he repeated it. “ I 
cannot, I cannot.” 

“ But, Stephen ” 

“ Ursula, you don’t doubt me ? You don’t think — 
you can’t think I knew? You can’t think I planned 

this — this ” He faltered as his eyes turned upon 

the limp body he still carried in his hands. He had 
passed his word to the King to be silent, and even if 
he spoke, the truth would only add horror to horrors. 
“ Ursula — beloved ! ” Laying Chariot on the table 
he held out his hands in appeal, to have them caught 
in both hers, and he himself drawn into her arms. 

“ Doubt you ? No, Stephen, no, no ; I trust you 
utterly — utterly. And cannot you trust me? We 
have the boy to think of — the Dauphin — he must be 
protected. But for Chariot he — he — oh! I cannot 
say it. Stephen, don’t you see ? don’t you understand ? 
How can we guard him in the dark ? The mask, 
Stephen: whose was it? where did it come from ? Tell 
me for the boy’s sake.” 

“ I cannot, Ursula. Dearest heart, I cannot.” 

Lifting from the table the napkin in which the mask 


308 THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 

had been wrapped, Villon shook it out, holding it up 
much as La Mothe had held the coat-of-mail. Then he 
threw it on the table, spreading it flat. 

“ Fleur-de-lys,” he said, his finger on the woven pattern. 

“ Fleur-de-lys and — Stephen, you came from Valmy ? 
Oh ! My God ! My God I I understand it all. So 
that is why you are in Amboise? ” 

Villon nodded gravely. Temperamentally he was the 
most emotional of the three, and the tragedy in little, 
which so nearly had been a tragedy in great, had so 
shaken his nerve that he controlled his tongue with 
difficulty. 

“ Yes,” he said slowly, “ that is why he is in 
Amboise, and he never knew it. There were two 
arrows on the string, Saxe and this. And it might 
have been me.” He turned to La Mothe. “You 
saved me ; but for you it would have been me.” 

But La Mothe gave him no answer. For the mo- 
ment it seemed as if he had forgotten Villon’s exist- 
ence altogether. His arms were round the girl, one 
hand mechanically stroking her shoulder to quiet her 
fears, lover fashion, and comfort her with his nearness. 
But his thoughts were in Valmy, a thin, tired voice 
whispering in his ears, a white face whose eyes smoul- 
dered fire looking into his. With a shiver he roused 
himself. 

“Yes, I came from Valmy, and I must go back to 
Valmy; I must go this very night. Saxe used to keep 
a horse always ready,” he ended, with the bitterness of 
shame in his voice. 

“ Stephen, was it for this ? ” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 309 

“I suppose so. But I must go to Valmy to-night. 
As to the Dauphin, when I return ” 

“ When you return ! ” echoed Villon drearily. “ Did 
Molembrais return? Saxe knew too much, and Saxe is 
dead. You will be the next, for you know more than 
Saxe ever guessed at.” 

“Saxe dead?” said Ursula, turning to Villon in her 
distress. “Monsieur Villon, how did Saxe die ? ” 

“ Do not ask me, but persuade La Mothe to keep 
away from Valmy; let him go anywhere — anywhere, 
but not to Valmy. Remember Molembrais, and Mon- 
sieur La Mothe has not even a safe-conduct.” 

“ Stephen, Stephen, for my sake ! Oh, that terrible 
King!” 

“ Beloved, I must go to Valmy, my word is pledged. 
Help me to be strong to go ; you who are so loyal and 
so brave, be brave now for me. Surely to be brave for 
another is love itself ! But, Villon, the Dauphin must 
know nothing of what has happened. Let him be 
happy while he can. Take away poor Chariot and that 
horrible thing, and leave me to make up a tale. Ursula, 
go and play with the dogs — anything that he may not 
see the pain on your dear face. He is coming back — 
listen how he laughs, poor lad I Go, Villon ; go, man, 
go, go ! ” 

“Blaise broke his knife-blade and never dented a 
link! ” cried the boj', rushing in as Villon disappeared. 
Never had Ursula de Vesc seen him so full of a child’s 
joyous life, a child’s flood-tide of the gladness of living, 
and so little like the dull, unhappy, suspicion-haunted 
Dauphin of France “ Father John says I look like a 


310 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


Crusader, but I would rather be Roland. Now I must 
wear my mask.” 

“ Monseigneur, will you ever forgive my carelessness ? 
but Chariot has torn it.” 

“ Chariot ? Where is Chariot ? ” 

“ Sent away in disgrace. As a punishment he is 
banished for a week.” 

“ But my mask, I want my mask ! ” 

“ It is spoiled, and I must get you a new one — a 
better one.” 

“ But I don’t want a new one or a better one ; I want 
this one, and I want it now ! It was very careless. 
Monsieur La Mothe, and I am very angry with you.” 

‘‘Charles! Charles!” broke in the Franciscan, “Ro- 
land would never have said that ; and I am sure it was 
not Monsieur La Mothe’s fault.” 

For a moment the boy turned upon the priest in a 
child’s gust of passion at the interruption, his face a 
struggle between petulance and tears. Then he tilted 
his chin, squaring his meagre shoulders under the coat- 
of-mail as he supposed Roland might have done. 

“You are right. Father, though you do come from 
Valmy. Monsieur La Mothe, I am sorry for what I 
said, and do not forget you are to call me Charles. 
Ursula, you have been crying ; is that because Chariot 
spoilt my mask ? ” 

“ No, Charles ; but because Monsieur La Mothe must 
go to Valmy.” 

“ Oh ! Valmy ? ” he said dully. “ I am never happy 
but somehow it is Valmy, Valmy, Valmy ! I think hell 
must be like Valmy.” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


311 


“My son, you must not say such things.” 

“ But what if I think them ? Am I not to say what 
I think ? And in hell they hate, do they not ? Mon- 
sieur Villon,” he went on as the poet re-entered the 
room, “ they were talking of Valmy as I passed the 
stair-head. Will you go and see if my father is dead 
a second time? No ! stay where you are, I hear some 
one coming.” 

Hastily crossing the room, Charles cowered close to 
Ursula de Vesc, furtively catching at her skirts as if 
half ashamed of his fears and yet drawn to the comfort 
of a strength greater than his own. All his pride of 
possession and joyousness of childhood were gone, and 
instead of wholesome laughter the terrors of a crushed 
spirit looked out of his dull eyes. He was no longer 
Roland, but the son of Louis of France. Laying her 
arm about him in the old attitude of protection which 
had so stirred La Mothe’s heart, she held him close to 
her, the anxiety of her watchfulness no less evident 
than his own. The darkness of her dread had deep- 
ened tenfold. Valmy could bring no good to Amboise, 
no good to Stephen La Mothe. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


THE ARREST 

There was no long delay. Passing Villon with a 
single, keen, scrutinizing glance, a man, a stranger to 
them all, entered, pausing a yard or two within the 
room. Four or five troopers showed behind him in the 
doorway, but made no attempt to cross the threshold. 
All were dusty, travel-stained, and with every sign of 
having ridden both far and fast. Their leader alone 
was bareheaded, his sheathed sword caught up in a 
gauntleted hand. 

“ In the King’s name. Monseigneur,” he said, turning 
to the Dauphin with a salute which halted evenlj^ 
between respect and contempt. But the Dauphin only 
shrank closer to Ursula de Vesc and it was La Mothe 
who answered. 

“ You are from Valmy ? ” 

“By order of the King.” 

“ With despatches ? ” 

“ With instructions, and,” he paused, motioning to 
the open doorway behind him, then added, “means to 
carry them out.” 

“ What are your instructions ? ” 

“To arrest Monsieur Stephen La Mothe ” 

312 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


313 


“Arrest Monsieur La Mothe? Why? On what 
ground — on what charge ? ” Sweeping the Dauphin 
aside Ursula de Vesc moved forward as she spoke. 
The instinct of protection had given way to something 
very like the instinct of attack: her love for the 
boy was satisfied with a passivity which could never 
content her love for the man. 

“ If I could tell you, I would,” he replied courteously, 
“but I fear Monsieur La Mothe must ask the King 
that question himself. I know nothing beyond my 
instructions.” 

“Are your orders in writing?” It was Villon who 
spoke. 

“Yes, but I do not recognize your right to see 
them.” 

“ My right, then,” said La Mothe, since it is against 
me they are directed.” 

“ Certainly; no doubt you can identify the writing.” 

“I can,” answered Ursula, stretching out her hand 
for the paper which would have been Beaufoy’s pass- 
port to promotion but for his unlucky appetite. But 
it was withheld in obvious hesitation. 

“Remember, mademoiselle, that if it is destroyed, 
I still have the means behind me ” 

“ Oh, monsieur,” she interrupted, striking at him 
with her tongue and finding a relief in the contempt, 
“it is easy to see you come from Valmy.” 

A sour smile crossed his face as the colour rose at 
the gibe, but he only shrugged his shoulders with a 
little outward gesture of the hands. 

“Yes, we grow suspicious in Valmy. There are my 


314 THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 

instructions, mademoiselle ; you will see they leave 
me no alternative.” 

“Yes, the writing is the King’s throughout. ‘Go 
to Amboise,”’ she read, “‘Arrest Monsieur Stephen 
La Mothe, and bring him to Valmy without delay. 
Tell him his orders are cancelled, and on your life 
let him hold no communication with the Dauphin. — 
Louis.’ ” With every sentence her voice hardened ; 
spots of colour flecked the pallor of her cheeks, grew 
and deepened. “It is vile, infamous, contemptible,” 
she said, “but it is like your King. Yes! You come 
from Valmy, there can be no doubt you come from 
Valmy. Stephen, I shall speak. Useless? Perhaps; 
but I shall speak all the same. Your King has his 
spies in Amboise, we know that, spies who can lie or 
tell the truth as it suits their master. Through them 
the King knows that Monsieur La Mothe has twice 
saved the Dauphin at the risk of his own life, and 
now — now ! ” She paused, beating the paper with the 
back of her hand with a foyce that lent her words power 
and meaning, “now he is to hold no communication 
with the Dauphin I Monsieur La Mothe may set his 
own life on the hazard to save the Dauphin but he may 
not speak with him I That is Valmy gratitude and 
the King’s miserable, jaundiced mind. And his com- 
mission is cancelled I What that commission is I do 
not know, but, thank God ! Monsieur La Mothe, you 
are freed from it, whatever it is, since it came out 
of Valmy.” 

“ I thank God too,” said La Mothe, his eyes meeting 
hers a moment and travelling behind to where the 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


315 


Dauphin stood hugging the wall with Diane and Lui- 
meme at his feet. The significance of the glance was 
unmistakable, and the girl paused, breathless, in the 
revelation. The gifts were his commission, the mask 
which killed Chariot was his commission, and the com- 
mission was cancelled. The King had repented, had 
he not repented there would be no cancellation. “ Yes,” 
repeated La Mothe, “very humbly I thank God, nor 
do I think the King can have heard as yet of the 
Dauphin’s second danger. Monsieur, I am at your 
service ; I was about to leave for Valmy to-night in 
any case.” 

“ So much the better ; but I regret you must go as 
my prisoner. You can understand that I have no 
option.” 

“ I quite understand, and here is my sword. Mon- 
seigneur — no, since you permit it, Charles, my friend, 
I leave you in good keeping. You will have Madem- 
oiselle de Vesc, Father John, and Villon here, to watch 
over you. Villon, beware of that third cast of the net. 
I think that is now the one great danger.” 

“La Mothe, La Mothe, must you go? Is there no 
other way? Remember Molembrais.” 

“ What other way is possible ? The King has my 
word, and if that were not enough there are what 
Monsieur de Commines would call five good reasons 
behind the door. Monsieur, you have my parole. 
Something stronger than your five reasons holds me. 
Good-bye, Charles, my friend ” 

But somewhere in the boy’s blood a dash of the 
Crusader’s spirit he had sneered at stirred. Brushing 


316 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


past Ursula de Vesc he ranged himself by La Mothe’s 
side, his coat-of-mail an undulating pool of light as 
when the moon shines on a falling wave pitted by the 
wind. 

“Monsieur from Valmy, Mademoiselle de Vesc is 
right. You may tell my father that Monsieur La 
Mothe has twice saved my life and that all Amboise 
knows it. That he saved me may not count for much 
in Valmy — it may even be against him — but what all 
Amboise knows all France will know. I think my 
father will understand. Monsieur La Mothe, good-bye, 
and when you come back we shall play our games to- 
gether again. I don’t think I care about the mask, but 
I shall not forget to be Roland. Come, Father John, 
let us go and pray that Monsieur La Mothe will soon 
come back to us.” 

“Monseigneur — Charles!” cried La Mothe, taking 
the stretched-out hand in both his, “ you are a gallant 
little gentleman. No; I do not think you will forget 
to be Roland. God save the Dauphin I ” 

“ Thank you. Monsieur La Mothe. Monsieur from 
Valmy, you have my leave to go. Come, Father 
John.” With a stiff little bow he hooked his arm into 
the brown sleeve of the Franciscan, and the two left 
the room. 

“I think, monsieur,” said Ursula de Vesc, “the 
Dauphin speaks the sentiments of us all. You have 
Monsieur La Mothe’s parole : he will follow you in five 
minutes.” 

But how spirit drew to spirit as lip to lip in these 
five minutes needs not to be told. Whoso has seen 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


317 


love go out of life, uncertain of return, will under- 
stand. But if that morning there had been a passing 
behind the veil into the holy of holies where immortal 
love dwelleth, then in these five minutes there was the 
very throbbing of the heart which beats eternal even 
in these earthly walls of time. 

Nor was Villon drier of eye as he waited under the 
stars. 

“ He knows too much,’’ he said ; “ and when a man 
knows too much, not even a ballad can save him.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS 

But for two happenings by the way Stephen La 
Mothe’s ride over the route taken twenty-four hours 
earlier by Commines was without event. Of these 
happenings one was bitter and one was sweet, and in 
mercy the bitter came first, leaving the sweet to 
comfort the end of the journey. 

Once fully clear of Amboise the leader of the troop 
halted, and by a prearranged plan his followers gath- 
ered round them, hemming them into a circle as they 
had hemmed Beaufoy earlier in the day. 

“ Monsieur La Mothe,” he said civilly, but speaking 
with the air of a man who had a fixed purpose, “ there 
is a certain signet which I must demand. We who 
come from Valmy always say must and demand,” he 
added, with a touch of grim humour, which was lost 
on La Mothe, but which Paul Beaufoy would have ap- 
preciated. 

‘‘ Your instructions said nothing about a signet.” 

“I must have it, nevertheless. You can see for 
yourself that the order was written in haste, and how 
should I know the ring exists if the King had not told 
me ? To be frank with you, these men do not go with 
318 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


319 


US all the way to Valmy, and where would I be if, when 
we arrived, you played your signet against my scrap of 
paper ? ” 

“ But you have my parole.” 

“ Valmy’s parole ! ” he said scornfully. “ I mean no 
offence, but I can afford no risks. Come, Monsieur 
La Mothe, do not put me and yourself to the indignity 
of a search.” 

At the contempt in the scornful voice La Mothe 
started, flushing hotly in the darkness. But the mem- 
ory of the deadly deceit practised on his own faith was 
too recent, and he controlled himself. How could he 
blame a stranger for judging the servant by the 
master ? 

“ The ring came from the King and should go back 
to the King. On your honour, is this part of your 
duty?” 

“ My most solemn duty, as God is above us ; without 
the signet I cannot fulfil all that has been laid upon 
me ” — which was true in a sense. The order stolen 
from Beaufoy might gain him entrance to Valmy, but 
without the signet he could not count on forcing a way 
to Louis himself. 

“On compulsion, then,” said La Mothe, giving up 
the signet, and thenceforward they rode in silence, not 
pressing their horses unduly ; but it vexed him to 
think that Louis would not trust him to return the 
ring. 

If Stephen La Mothe was sick at heart, who could 
blame him or charge it to the discredit of his courage ? 
The rough lesson had been roughly taught that it is 


320 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


better to tramp the road of life afoot and one’s own 
master than to ride a-horseback under compulsion. 
He had learned, too, that on the tree of knowledge of 
the ways of men are many fruits which pucker the 
mouth, as well as those which gladden the spirit. As 
to the ways of women, that is an altogether different 
book — a serial, let us say, but in how many numbers ? 

Of these ways La Mothe learned one before the sun 
of a new day had risen. Somewhere in the neighbour- 
hood of the auberge where Paul Beaufoy had purchased 
breakfast at a cost greater than an empty purse, the 
troopers were dismissed after a brief conference, from 
which La Mothe was excluded, arid the two rode on 
alone. Each was preoccupied and neither spoke. 
Knowing the relationship which existed between V almy 
and Amboise there seemed to La Mothe nothing strange 
in the procedure followed both at the Chateau and 
afterwards. If the King suspected he had joined the 
camp of the Dauphin, then arrest might have been 
resisted ; but once upon the road, and his parole passed, 
there was no further need for force. The King who 
kept no faith was shrewd to know when he could trust 
the faith of others, and the troopers doubtless were 
required elsewhere. The truth was they followed at a 
distance, in order to cover and aid Molembrais’ flight 
in the desperate possibility of his escape from Valmy. 

Unconsciously following the precedent set by Corn- 
mines, they drew rein while it was yet dark. Daylight, 
both knew, would show Valmy in the distance. But as 
they crawled at a foot’s pace in the yet darker shadow 
of a dense pine-wood edging the highway, the east a 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


321 


sullen grey ribbed by a narrow cloud poised upon the 
horizon like an inverted giant monolith, there sounded 
behind them the remote pad^ pad of rapid hoofs muffled 
by dust. It was the very dead hour of night, when 
even nature is steeped in the quiet of a child’s sleep, 
and the rhythmic beat broke the stillness like the 
throbbing of a heart. 

“ This way and be silent.” 

La Mothe felt rather than saw his bridle caught,^ 
wrenching his horse backward into a gloom so heavy 
that those behind them would have passed them by 
but that Grey Roland, chafing at the pressure on the 
bit, tossed his head and set the cheek-chains jangling. 
Instantly the foremost rider checked, and a voice 
called out of the darkness, “ Who is there ? Stephen ! 
Stephen ! ” It was Ursula de Vesc. With a touch 
of the spur La Mothe drove Grey Roland forward, 
dragging the rein from the hand which held it. 

“ Ursula ! You ! Why are you here ? Who is 
with you ? ” 

“ Where else should I be ? ” she answered between 
laughter and a sob. “Did you think I could wait, 
breaking my heart alone in Amboise ? Besides, there 
is no danger. Father John is with me, and now we 
shall be together to the end.” 

“ But the Dauphin ? ” 

“Your orders are cancelled, don’t you remember? 
There is no longer any fear for the Dauphin, And if 
there was,” she added half defiantly, “ I would be here 
all the same.” 

From the shadow of the pines La Mothe’s captor 


322 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


rode slowly forward. “For what purpose, mademoi- 
selle?” 

“ To tell the King what I know Monsieur La Mothe 
will never tell him — that he has twice saved the 
Dauphin’s life against that would-be murderer, Molem- 
brais. And when all France hears the story, as all 
France shall, not even the King will dare to lay a 
finger on the most loyal gentleman from Artois to 
Navarre. My one fear was I might be too late, and 
all night have ridden in terror lest you should reach 
Valmy before me.” 

“But there is no entering Valmy in the dark.” 

“ Monsieur La Mothe’s signet ” 

“La Mothe, you never told me that.” 

“ Why should I ? ” replied La Mothe. “ I owed you 
no information. You took your instructions from the 
King. But, Ursula, you cannot, must not, dare not, go 
to Valmy. Remember Saxe. The risk would be mad- 
ness, the danger ” 

“ Where you go I go,” she answered steadily. “ Dear, 
do not try to dissuade me, it would be no use. Let us 
not fret ourselves in the little time we have. And is the 
danger less for you than for me ? ” 

“Do you mean,” demanded Molembrais, “that the 
signet will give admission to the King at any hour, day 
or night ? ” 

“ At any hour, yes.” 

“And we are ready to go,” said the girl, ranging 
her horse by the side of Grey Roland, so that La Mothe 
was within touch of her hand. 

“Neither you nor the priest — La Mothe and La 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 323 

Mothe only,” lie answered, his voice roughening into 
passion for the first time. “Come, sir, I hold your 
parole.” 

“ But this does not touch Monsieur La Mothe’s 
parole.” 

“ Mademoiselle, you read my instructions ; they have 
nothing to do with you.” 

“ Monsieur, I never thought myself a person of any 
importance, but I believe the King will thank you.” 

“Flatly, I decline to take you.” 

“ Flatly, I shall go whether you decline or not.” 

“ Father! ” and in his angry perplexity Molembrais 
turned, appealing to the priest. 

“ She is right,” answered the Franciscan, speaking 
for the first time, “ and when one is right there is no 
turning back, no matter what the end may be. Yes,” 
he went on, replying now to a sudden gesture dimly 
seen in the gloom, “ I know you are armed and we are 
not, but, short of killing me, you can no more turn me 
back from the right than you can turn back the finger 
of God from lifting the sun yonder.” 

He faced the east as he spoke, and at the sweep of his 
arm all faced with him. Dawn trembled in birth below 
the hard rim of the world. The leaden sullenness was 
colder, clearer, the upper sky a threat of storm, but the 
impending shaft of cloud had caught the first of the 
coming glory and blazed a splendid crimson. It was 
as if indeed the Divine had clothed itself in visibility, 
that the troubled in spirit might take comfort, and faith 
go forward strengthened in the right, unafraid. 

Crossing his breast mechanically with his finger-tips 


324 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


the monk sat in silence, like one tranced. “ ‘ Lift up 
your heads, O ye gates, and the King of Glory shall 
come in,’ ” he murmured. Then he roused, straighten- 
ing himself in the saddle. “ Let us ride on. Have no 
fear, mademoiselle. By the Christ of Love whom I 
serve you shall taste no harm.” 

“ They will never let you pass the outer guard.” 

“A v/ay will open; ride on.” 

“Well ride, then!” And ride they did, furiously. 
The fewer sleepless eyes in Valmy the better for his 
purpose ; the surer, too, his chance of escape in the con- 
fusion which must follow the King’s death. Once only 
Molembrais looked round. 

“ Remember your parole. Keep near me. La Mothe I ” 
Then, crouching low, he drove his spurs home and 
dashed forward at a reckless gallop. 

But if he thought to shake off Ursula de Vesc and 
the Franciscan, he was mistaken. Thanks to the good 
offices of Cartier, the innkeeper, they had changed 
horses at Ch^teau-Renaud, and now their freshness 
more than balanced any lesser skill in horsemanship. 
Even Father John, the weakest rider of the four, 
never flinched or fell behind, but, stiff with pain and 
every joint a living fire from the unaccustomed 
fatigue, kept his place, second in the troop. Stephen 
and Ursula came last, side by side. Crossing the 
Loire the pace slackened, and for the first time speech 
was possible. 

“ Stephen, you are not vexed ? I could not wait in 
Amboise eating my heart out, knowing nothing.” 

“ How could love vex me ? ” he answered as they 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


325 


clasped hands across the current. “ But, beloved, I 
am in terror for you. The King ” 

“Hush! do not talk of the King. Father John is 
right, God’s over all, and I have no fear.” The clasp 
tightened in a message neither could speak. But it 
was only for a moment ; already their horses were 
scrambling up the further bank, forcing them apart. 

“ God guard you, Ursula.’’ 

“ Stephen, beloved, is it good-bye ? ” For answer he 
shook his head, but not in denial ; none knew for cer- 
tain how suddenly good-byes might be said in Valmy. 

Once across the river Molembrais beckoned to La 
Mothe to close up with him. 

“We must keep together now. If I have done my 
part courteously, help me in return by silence. Remem- 
ber, no one in Valmy knows of the arrest. Mademoi- 
selle de Vesc and the monk must fend for themselves.” 

La Mothe nodded agreement. The request was 
natural. For his part he had no desire to be a target 
for curious questions. He had no explanation to give, 
nor was he even certain whether, as Villon said, he 
knew too much, or was accused of disloyalty in joining 
the Dauphin’s party. As to Ursula, it seemed safer 
for her to be disassociated from him in either case ; 
safer, too, that the King should see him first and alone ; 
the heat of his wrath might exhaust itself. So the two 
rode on ahead, Ursula and Father John following more 
leisurely. The dawn was as yet little more than a haze 
of yellow mist. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


THE DAWN BROADENS 

While they were still a bow-shot from the walls a 
hoarse voice shouted a command to halt, but Molem- 
brais, holding the signet above his head, called back 
“ In the King’s name,” and rode on. Every moment of 
gloom was precious, and a bold assertion of privilege 
was his surest hope. If he appeared to doubt his own 
credentials, who would believe? There is always a 
certain willingness to take a man at his own valuation, 
especially if the valuation be a low one. Waiting for 
no challenge, and faithful to his policy, he flung himself 
from his horse at the outer gate with every appearance 
of haste. 

“ In the King’s name,” he cried, scarcely giving him- 
self time to light upon his feet and holding fast by 
Paul Beaufoy’s formula. “ To His Majesty, Monsieur 
La Mothe and I — quickly now.” 

As he more than half expected, the very importunity 
staggered opposition. 

“ His Majesty is asleep ; you cannot pass ” 

“His orders are imperative — sleeping or waking — 
any hour by day or by night. Who is on guard ? ” 

“ Monsieur de Saint-Pierre.” 

326 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


327 


“Send for him, then. Stir yourself, my man, and 
don’t stand there gaping like a fish.” 

But Saint-Pierre had already heard the altercation, 
and at the rasp of his spurs on the flags Molembrais 
turned sharply. Quick to note the richer dress he 
drew his own conclusion. Waiting for neither ques- 
tion nor explanation he again held out the signet. 

“ Monsieur de Saint-Pierre, we must see the King at 
once — at once, you understand. Here is my author- 
ity.” 

“ But I do not know you ? No stranger can ” 

“ But you know this ! ” Molembrais cut him short. 
“ Do you think I ha^e risked my neck galloping these 
accursed roads all night to be delayed now just because 
you do not know me ? Is it the King’s signet or is it 
not ? ” 

“ Pass, then,” said Saint-Pierre reluctantly. “ Does 
Monsieur La Mothe go with you ? ” 

For an instant Molembrais hesitated. Dared he say 
no ? He would have given much to have shaken off 
La Mothe now that the gates were passed, and have 
forced his way to the King alone ; but the attempt 
might waken that suspicion which slept so lightly in 
Valmy. While he paused. La Mothe answered, deciding 
the question. 

“ Unfortunately, yes. Monsieur de Saint-Pierre. 
Will you please tell Monsieur de Commines that I have 
arrived ? ” 

“ Is it arrest ? My dear lad ” he began as La 

Mothe nodded, but Molembrais again interrupted 
him. 


328 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


“We have no time now. Where is the King ? ” 

“ In his usual lodgings.” 

“ Mort-dieu ! monsieur, how should I know his usual 
lodgings ? Am I of Valmy ? ” 

“Monsieur, a little civility would do you no harm.” 

“ Monsieur, once I have seen the King I will be as 
civil or as uncivil as you please.” 

Turning on his heel Saint-Pierre beckoned to an 
under officer. “Pass these gentlemen to Captain 
Leslie : he is on duty in the King’s ante-room. Don’t 
fear. La Mothe, I will send word to Monsieur de 
Commines without delay. He is anxious about you, 
for he has been enquiring at the gates once this morn- 
ing already.” 

“ Monsieur de Saint-Pierre, there is a lady behind 
us ; she has ridden all night ” 

“ A lady ? ” Saint-Pierre’s hand fell on his shoulder 
in a kindly touch. “ Not old enough to be your 
mother. I’ll wager ! Don’t fret, mon gars^ I have been 
young myself,” and with that La Mothe had to be con- 
tent. 

Motioning to La Mothe to precede him, Molembrais 
took up his position last of the three. Now that he 
was within its walls the indefinable terror of Valmy 
possessed him in spite of his recklessness. It was not 
that he repented, not that his purpose was less bitterly 
determined, not that he had grown coward or would 
have turned back had return been possible, but the 
chill of the shadows through which the path lay crept 
deeper and deeper. In part it was a dread of failure, 
in part the inexpressible revolt of nature against an 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


329 


inevitable sacrifice, in part the sinister suggestions 
inseparable from Valmy itself. 

And how could he escape from that suggestiveness ? 
There, where the denser gloom sloped from the roof 
across a paved courtyard, Guy’s scaffold might have 
stood ; through that doorway, dimly outlined against 
the greyness, Guy might have looked upon the light 
for the last time ; these obscure, uncertain windows, 
blind eyes in the slowly waning night, might have 
seen the axe fall ; down these cellar stairs might have 
been carried — but they had swung to the left into a 
narrow court, and before them were the King’s lodgings. 
No ! it was not that he repented, not that he had turned 
coward, but would fate and circumstances trick him of 
his revenge at the last ? 

There are some men whom the dread of failure chills 
to the heart when the crisis calls them, and Marc de 
Molembrais was one of them. He had no definite plan 
of either attack or escape. How could he have, when 
every angle of the stairs, every corridor, every room 
through which they passed was strange to him ? But 
if he had no plan, he had a purpose firmly set in his de- 
termination, which neither gloom nor chill could check ; 
from that purpose, that stern, stubborn justice of revenge, 
he never shrank, beyond it he never looked. Somehow 
he would get Louis of France into his grip, and some- 
hpw he would break to liberty. At the door of the 
King’s ante-room Leslie met them, and their guide 
stepped aside : his work was done. 

In silence Molembrais held up the signet. Instinc- 
tively he felt that neither bluster nor importunity would 


330 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


serve him now. Then he glanced aside at La Mothe. 
“We must see the King and at once,” he almost whis- 
pered. His heart was beating to suffocation, and in his 
dread of failure he feared the excitement in his voice 
would betray him at the last. 

“ Where from?” 

“ Amboise.” 

Leslie nodded comprehendingly. That Paul Beaufoy 
should go and a stranger return was quite in keeping 
with the King’s devious methods. “ Give me your 
sword and then I will waken him. I think he expects 
you.” 

“ My sword ? ” The request staggered him. He had 
relied upon his sword for the one thrust necessary, then 
to aid him in his escape, or at least that he might die 
fighting. 

“ Don’t you know that no one approaches the King 
armed? not even I, not even Lessaix. There is nothing 
personal in it.” 

“ No, I never heard that.” He stood a minute, gnaw- 
ing his lip, then wrenched the buckle open. What 
matter, he had his dagger hidden I 

Laying the weapon aside, Leslie softly lifted the por- 
tiere, holding it looped with one hand while with the 
other he opened the door very gently. 

“ Sire ! ” 

“ Is that Leslie ? I am awake.” 

“ There are messengers from Amboise. Your Maj- 
esty’s signet ” 

“ Thank God ! Oh, thank God ! Lord God I 
Mother of God I Christ of God ! grant he was in 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


331 


time.” The voice was thin and tremulous, the end 
almost a sob. “Turn up the lamp, Leslie, and leave 
them with me alone. Mercy of God ! strengthen me 
for what is to come.” 

Dropping the portiere behind him, Leslie crossed the 
room with a quietness rare in one so roughly natured 
and so strongly built. But Louis had the power of 
winning men’s affections when it so pleased him, and it 
was politic to win the man who held his life in care. 
Loosening the wick in its socket with the silver pin 
hanging from the lamp for that purpose, Leslie returned 
to the door. 

“ Are you ready, Sire ? ” 

An affirmative wave of the hand was the answer, as, 
high upon his pillows and pushed to the very outer 
edge of the bed, the King leaned forward. Was he 
ready? He dared not say so. Words do not come 
easily when life or death waits uncertain behind the 
door. 

“ Have you slept. Sire ? ” 

“No.” The voice was firmer as the hard will re- 
gained the upper hand, but it was harsh, dry, curt. 
“ Perhaps I’ll sleep — later. Please God I’ll sleep later. 
Send them in.” 

But in the ante-room Leslie paused a moment. 

“Take off those riding gloves, he said sharply. 
‘'You must know little of kings’ courts. Leave them 
on the table. You can pick them up as you go out.” 

“ I know my duty,” answered Molembrais, “ and 
that is enough for me.” To speak sharply steadied his 
nerve. But at the door he stood aside and motioned 


332 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


to La Mothe. “Do you go in first.” Again it was 
not that his courage failed him, but La Mothe would 
be so much covert, La Mothe would draw the King’s 
attention. It would ruin everything if, while he was 
on the very threshold, the King should cry out. Where 
is Beaufoy ? 

But Louis never gave him a glance. As the light 
fell upon La Mothe’s face he drew a shivering sigh 
and clenched his teeth with a snap. Life or death 
had passed the door — which was it ? 

“Come nearer,” he said, beckoning. “Nearer yet. 
You, Beaufoy, stay there by the door. The Dauphin ? 

— Charles ? ” 

“Well, Sire.” 

“Well!” The beckoning hand dropped, then he 
leaned forward, covering his face. “ Oh, God — God 

— God — God be thanked I ” he sobbed, his shoulders 
shaking in convulsions as he fought for breath. “ God 
be thanked ! ” La Mothe heard him whisper a second 
time, and in the silence Molembrais crept forward and 
aside, edging by the wall where the shadows were 
thickest. The lamp was his danger. He must quench 
the lamp and strike in the dark. Forward and aside he 
stole towards the table. 

Suddenly Louis reared himself upright, again shak- 
ing a hand before him, but this time in a threat. 

“ I cancelled my orders : where — where ” 

“The mask is destroyed, Sire.” 

“ Destroyed ? Safely ? ” 

“Safely, Sire.” 

“ And the Dauphin — Charles — does he know ” 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


333 


Again he paused, and again La Mothe filled the blank, 
reading into the completed words the uncompleted 
question. 

“The Dauphin knows nothing but that the gifts 
were mine.” 

“Yours! Yes, yours, yours only, and you dared — 
who is that at the table ? ” His voice rose shrilly into 
a cry. “ That is not Paul Beaufoy.” 

The shift of eyes, the change of voice, rather than 
the words themselves warned La Mothe. Round he 
spun, irresolute in surprise. Nor was it the figure 
stooping at the table-edge with a hand reached for the 
light that caught his gaze, it was the gleam of that 
light clear upon a signet ring, and Villon’s phrase 
rang in his ears — “A martlet with three mullets in 
chief.” Then the lamp flickered out. 

“ Molembrais I ” he cried, and sprang on Molembrais ; 
and from behind, as they twisted in each other’s arms, 
he heard the King whisper in an indrawn, frightened 
breath, “ Molembrais I Molembrais I ” as if the dead had 
risen. 

Molembrais! It was the third cast of the net. 
Straining his grip yet tighter. La Mothe fought for his 
life. Molembrais was the stronger, Molembrais was 
the more desperate, and desperation is a strength in 
itself. Twisting, their limbs interlocked, they spun, 
tripped and fell ; and with the blood drumming in his 
ears La Mothe heard nothing, knew nothing, felt noth- 
ing but Molembrais’ hot breath in his face, Molembrais’ 
tense muscles closing, stiffening, crushing as they rolled 
upon the floor, wrestling as they rolled. Then of a 


334 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


sudden the room was ablaze, a racking violence 
wrenched Molembrais from his clasp, and he was 
pressed back downward on the floor, a sword at his 
throat. It was Commines ; Leslie and a guard held 
Molembrais ; beyond, at the doorway, stood Ursula de 
Vesc ; by the bedside Father John stooped above the 
King, his arm thrown round him. 

“ Stephen, Stephen, what madness is this ? ” 

Propped on his arm La Mothe pointed to Molem- 
brais. 

“ Molembrais I ” he panted. “ Twice — the Dauphin 
— now the King. Thank God I knew him at the 
last.” 

By the bedside the Franciscan stooped lower, whis- 
pering in the King’s ear — whispering urgently, in- 
sistently, pleadingly. What he said none heard, but 
the hard face slowly softened. 

“ Philip, let him rise ; you did well to vouch for 
Monsieur La Mothe. And you, young sir, who have 
learned when to speak and when to keep silence, was 
I not right? Amboise was dull, and queen and wait- 
ing-maid are all of the one flesh ? Mademoiselle, take 
him back to Amboise with you and watch together 
over my son, the Dauphin, and the God of Mercy be 
gracious to you both as He has been to me this day.” 

He paused a moment. Shifting on his elbow he laid 
an arm round the Franciscan’s neck, drawing him 
closer, and as he whispered to the priest a laugh 
wrinkled his worn face. Father John nodded, smiling. 
The King’s arm slipped from him and he straightened 
himself. 


THE JUSTICE OF THE KING 


335 


“ You are right, Sire, it is their due. Mademoiselle, 
come nearer. Who giveth this woman to this man ? ” 
“ I do,” answered Louis. 

Seven years after the boy Charles succeeded to the 
throne a certain Stephen de Vesc, chamberlain to the 
King, was appointed, first. Seneschal of Beaucaire, then 
Governor of Gaeta, and finally Constable of France. 
Could it be that Stephen La Mothe adopted his wife’s 
name to please the Dauphin ? Such changes are not 
unknown in our day, and for less cause. 




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